What I thought was empty
the dark, and you scything
through it, shows me is full –
so full everything’s spilling over
the sides; my feet wet
from the puddles on the path.
When you’re not there I am
all listening, leaning into warm
air, until you are – rolling
your rs and clicking your heels,
Spaniard of the skies; my head
a whirr of moths and beetles.
How the world has room for you
and trees and in its other hand
so many dull redundancies is hard
to measure; my chest aches
so, in the gloaming, I can’t find
my or your or our edges.
Where you are, between dusk
and dawn, earth and air, home,
far, is a feathered place to pour
myself into, hitch a ride on your
churring call, see who I am
if I open my arms like wings.