Poetry

Ghost-touched

It travels up the cracks between floorboards like rot.

Fibres decaying more quickly that the feet

wearing them down can pick up on. The centre

bubbles and boils daily, vomiting forth rules

and regimes that make the smooth inner workings

catch in halting breaths. A solid foundation

now revealed to be wet sand, washed away

by the smallest hint of tide. Green, orange, red:

a progression of colours mirror the emotional response

of the gathering crowd. Someone offers a hand

but their fingers are blackened by frostbite.

Poetry

Hidden Breath

You once told me

you could grasp a pool of water

in your hands

without a single drop

slipping through,

but you never

explained

that the trick

to it

was to freeze the water

first.

It’s a simple thing to leave

out, I understand.

Yet I cannot help

wondering

what other details

you’ve lost

along the way.