Drains  overflowing.
Manholes  spouting.
Water  bubbling.
Rising  and  leaping.
Through  front  doors.
Swelling  and  sweeping..
Th en  turning  and  twisting.
All  through  the  house.
Furniture  ruined.
Carpets  all  sloppy..
Then  it  goes  gushing.
Out  the  back  door.

Keith  Wilson.  Windermere.  UK.  2016.

Now between writings I create a space
so could read in ease and not in stress
to fill me with things I had less
not let my mind be drowned by pace.

Now between writings I create a space
it lessens the hurry kills the stress
helps to see ways find new address
discover light in untrod recess.

Now between writings I create a space
it shows me the order clears the mess
I think now more write down less
my soul is happy to be out of the race.

Now between writings I create a space
it reinvents ways kills the stress
lets me to places I didn't access
of unseen tears unread happiness.

When the talking stops
a small silent space
before the guns are pulled
is often a forlorn peace
hardly noticed, forgot.

My biggest fear
is that I will someday be 61
looking back on my life
as an imposter in a body
I don’t own
that I won’t
have stretched the skin and
scarred the cracks
or let the sun into my retina
I fear I won’t have drunk from life
as one drinks from a waterfall
part of a beautiful cosmic rushing
that only exists to **** you.

I read the numbers on headstones
and count the warning
that my life exists as a dash.
I have pocked my face with dots
so I’ll exist as morse code after
I’m gone
so that the synapses in my
alwaysthelightson brain
will sink into the soil as static
and evaporate into the sky
where I’ll live as lightning,
striking the tall boreal pines.



I read thunderstorms
to speak to the dead,
offering prayers of roots
and bloodshot eyes.
I can hear what
they’ve been telling me
all along
deep in my nerves
we’re not alone
and
we’ll be ok.

Your body covers mine
we deeply breathe each other
our skins are one
limbs stay entwined
lips touch
hands seek and find
slow  joyous  motions
join
and we are
home