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Life‑Arc Diptych

I. Townhouse Days — Looking Back

In the upper case,
a volume the colour of
late‑harvest light,
its spine breathing
salt and iron.

I keep it ajar —
not for dust,
but so the mapped water
can run beside
my own small channel,
each bend marked
in a hand I almost know.

Through the plaster,
a swell of brass‑warm air —
someone’s breath
caught in a long note,
turning the parlour
to water.

I did not rise,
only let the sound
find its own shelf
between the maps,
where it could lean
against a memory
I had not yet
admitted was mine.

Between the first assent
and the last,
a pressed leaf holds
streets I never walked;
in the hollow
where a page was long gone,
I’ve set a three‑part hinge:
motion, tether,
threshold.

It waits there,
not as ornament,
but as one more
voice in the palimpsest —
leaning into
the window I still
leave unlatched.

Hinge — Platform Light

Between the last stair
and the first step down,
I carry both airs —
brick‑warm and hay‑sweet —
in the same breath.

The train waits,
engine ticking like a clock
that belongs to neither house,
and I stand in its glow,
already partway gone,
already halfway home.

II. Homestead Nights — Looking Forward

The road out of the city
was a long exhale —
brick giving way to hedgerow,
hedgerow to open field.

By dusk, the air
tasted of cut grass and diesel,
and the porch light
was the only star
that didn’t blink.

In the kitchen,
boots left by the door
like commas in a sentence
I’d been writing all term.

Nights here were wide —
crickets stitching the dark,
the wind combing the wheat,
the barn’s slow breath
settling into the rafters.

Come morning,
the rooster’s call
would fold me back
into the farm’s grammar,
but for now

I lay between two lives —
one lit by streetlamps,
one by the moon on tin —
and felt the tracks
still pulsing
under my skin.

.

Looking Back

In the upper case,
a volume the colour of
late‑harvest light,
its spine breathing
salt and iron.

I keep it ajar —
not for dust,
but so the mapped water
can run beside
my own small channel,
each bend marked
in a hand I almost know.

Through the plaster,
a swell of brass‑warm air —
someone’s breath
caught in a long note,
turning the parlour
to water.

I did not rise,
only let the sound
find its own shelf
between the maps,
where it could lean
against a memory
I had not yet
admitted was mine.

Between the first assent
and the last,
a pressed leaf holds
streets I never walked;
in the hollow
where a page was long gone,
I’ve set a three‑part hinge:
motion, tether,
threshold.

It waits there,
not as ornament,
but as one more
voice in the palimpsest —
leaning into
the window I still
leave unlatched.

.

Platform Light

Between the last stair
and the first step down,
I carry both airs —
brick‑warm and hay‑sweet —
in the same breath.

The train waits,
engine ticking like a clock
that belongs to neither house,
and I stand in its glow,
already partway gone,
already halfway home.

.

Homestead Nights

(Sequel to Townhouse Days)

The road out of the city
was a long exhale —
brick giving way to hedgerow,
hedgerow to open field.

By dusk, the air
tasted of cut grass and diesel,
and the porch light
was the only star
that didn’t blink.

In the kitchen,
boots left by the door
like commas in a sentence
I’d been writing all term.

Nights here were wide —
crickets stitching the dark,
the wind combing the wheat,
the barn’s slow breath
settling into the rafters.  

Come morning,

the rooster’s call
would fold me back
into the farm’s grammar,
but for now

I lay between two lives —
one lit by streetlamps,
one by the moon on tin —
and felt the tracks
still pulsing
under my skin.

.

"Stencil on the Pavement Nights"

Under the sodium lamps,

the street writes itself

in chalk and meltwater,

each line gone

before it’s read twice.

I keep moving —

not for warmth,

but so the glass façades

don’t catch me

standing still.

From an upper floor,

a spill of light

and the clink of thin‑stemmed glass

fall into the gutter’s

slow current.

I don’t look up long —

just enough to see

a hand lift,

a mouth shape a toast

I’ll never hear.

Between the hiss of tyres

and the snap of wind

around the corner,

I pocket a scrap

of torn poster:

colour, slogan,

half a face.

It waits there,

not as keepsake,

but as one more

mark in the stencil —

pressed into the wet concrete

before the night

sets hard.

.

"Two Rivers Speak"

Beneath the ice,

I am still moving.

You can’t see it from the bank,

but the push is there —

steady as breath,

older than frost.

Across the sea,

a card you keep in a drawer

still hums when you touch it —

quayside stone,

a smear of light on water,

the ghost‑ink of a name

you once answered to.

We are not the same river,

but we share the pull:

one in your marrow now,

one in your hand like a dare.

Let the postcard be a charm,

but not a tether.

Let the ice be a mirror,

but not a wall.

Your soul is its own current.

Your voice is the thaw.

Palimpsest Between Walls

In the upper case,
a volume the colour of
late‑harvest light,
its spine breathing
salt and iron.

I keep it ajar —
not for dust,
but so the mapped water
can run beside
my own small channel,
each bend marked
in a hand I almost know.

Through the plaster,
a swell of brass‑warm air —
someone’s breath
caught in a long note,
turning the room
I sat in to water.

I did not rise,
only let the sound
find its own shelf
between the maps,
where it could lean
against a memory
I had not yet
admitted was mine.

Between the first assent
and the last,
a pressed leaf holds
streets I never walked;
in the hollow
where a page was long gone,
I’ve set a three‑part hinge:
motion, tether,
threshold.

It waits there,
not as trophy,
but as one more
voice in the palimpsest —
leaning into
the window I still
leave unlatched.

.

We turn the lamps low, as if

light itself might disturb the bindings.
Dust moves in slow constellations between us.
The table is a tide of open spines,
each one breathing its own weather.

A pressed leaf waits in the gutter of a page—
its veins still holding the map

of a forest we never walked.
Ink ghosts rise where someone once underlined
a sentence they could not bear to forget.

We read until the air feels written on.
Until the silence has its own grammar.

.

The box in the attic never asked to be opened.
Its lid sagged with the patience of decades.
Inside: envelopes addressed but never sent,
each one a room you could almost walk into.

Some held a single word,
as if the rest of the sentence

had slipped out the back door.

Others were heavy with air,
creased where someone had

folded the silence in half.

I read them without unfolding.
Sometimes the shape of the paper

tells you more than the ink.