Poetry

Eye Sore

They’re not reflections, they’re windows.

Diamond thoughts set into heat haze.

You see everything.

The room with the book on the nightstand,

open

with the pages facing down and spine stretched,

cracked down the centre

and fragmenting out.

Like they’re trying to be reliable, transparent

but haven’t quite figured it our yet.

Poetry

Stamps

How many times can you see a shadow,

the same shadow, in a day?

Different people, different stance, different persona

stamped with the shadow,

followed, tied, a trail of darkness

pulling faces at the world

while getting trampled on.

Unnoticed. Invisible. Despite

its clear lines.