This morning

the moon and her hands were dry as sea-glass

she held them firm over my mouth

and it was a kind of muzzle

in the kind of rain

that knows your postcode

that smells how the piano smells

like a boot slamming shut

or if the faint glint of

of heat rub

crystallising

on my inner wrist

could call forth

the kind of rain

science snatched

from my mum before she

could breathe on her own
this is how i want to be burned

tobacco

on the blunt tip of a star

like dust in a tantrum

slamming the

moon shut

reminds us all of

that time in the autumn evening

when the bulb of flushed tampons

fizzled and left us

fog

fog that was fluffy

like a shipwreck

and the fog became green,

became leaves

And they were returned to

Their rightful places
Shading the train tracks

And all the insects,

dry as sea glass.

Corn and potato

in an alfoil tray,

thick as mascara,

white, like the flowers by the school gate

and their insect mouths as

sad as I was

that time in autumn

when i marked

the postcode of each songline,

on my inner wrist

by the school gate,

i was pulling hair

and the postcodes

were breathing

shuddering on their own

mascara on the landlord’s

gothic walls

and down his

guilty conscience

slides the kind of rain

that soaks contracts

it was then, that i noticed

my shirt on backwards

tobacco on the blunt tip

of a star,
She was the kind of mum

who carried me,

not like a cross on her back

not like a line carries a song

or a song shelters furniture

but like insects in those hands,

dry from all the dishes

and wet because i asked her

so many times,

to recover my runaway umbrella
might be the kind of rain
I talk to my mum about

even as we drift apart

to our rightful places