The Blue Book


I don’t want to write a great poem.
I’m happiest in small lines,
simple things,
that tell in as few words as possible
what it felt like to die while breathing;
what it meant to drive into the moon
through fields of white gold,
silence singing with wind
as sunset colour sent blue
in pursuit of tomorrow.

Tiny words not meant
to capture nor contain,
just to point
at the fullness of twilight;
the quiet, repeating
perfection of another day
lived well.


New Slang

God of Small Things

The pilgrim at Tinker Creek