I don’t believe in ghosts

or soulmates

But I believe in empty houses

              my mother’s

              empty house—

The wind bumps at the glass

but can’t get in

and I am suddenly so near

to things that flicker and go

              out

Leaf shadows lie flat between me and the trees

A tap drips

I am nudged towards memory

I believe in this
I believe in the small world

on the dark side of the stone steps

              The moss

with its own landscape

its own microscopic

              monoliths

its pillowy green

turning itself up like a freshly made bed

to be sunk by my fingers to the knuckle

as if created just for

              this

I believe in wet red leaves

red taillights

rain

The sun sinks into woodsmoke

and I am raked with longing

A brief headrush

A sorrow
I can feel it sometimes

in the places where childhood swims closely

to the earth’s rind

              For a breath

we are parallel

              For a breath

I am brimming

I am a tree awash with shivers

              A leaf

flicking its soft white belly to the sky

I am water

I am mercury and opal

I am a reflection of clouds

              thin as a shiver

and ripples go over—
I believe in winter

black winter branches

black buds of rain

Sometimes stars gather like thistles

Sometimes there is only one

I believe in this too
I believe in six am fog

padding like a heartbeat tree to tree on bigcat paws

turning the bracken to stone

Sometimes I believe in the things that hurt me

Sometimes I believe in ghost towns and choirs

Sometimes ivy

Sometimes fathers

              the dark ache

              the bitter chocolate

              the haunting—

I believe in this

pine forests

gum forests

Christmas and fireworks

sunsoaked grass and folding chairs—

Something tidal

surges at my feet

              is this mine?

              is this memory?

Am I somehow

passing close

to something that used to be

home?

              here—

              here is my heart

              soft and dark as a fallen plum

How can I long for something I don’t recognise

that happens upon me suddenly with such

              fierceness?

How can it take my breath like this?

How does it leave me so

forsaken?
Streambends, trailbends—

              this membrane

              does nothing

—misery

lust

joy

 goosebumps pulled up by the roots—
I am bloodied

I am alive
I believe in the lost things

What they say

how they come to me

              tentatively

              like grass

              all at once

              like grief
I believe in someday coming home
This soft hurt

This hope