Greg Billingham
Take hold, distance, the land draws itself
back from you, wounded.
Tomorrow will grow out of your skin
when the morning doves grow restless in our blood.
the night resembles a question
marked by your breath
sculpted by shaking, like a
desert reforming under the sun.
Look now, your pockets are sand-filled,
horses drag dust into your mouth.
A lady, dancing, dips into you
with each step, and with each step
Lets you go.
Visitor
silver where the sky
is cut in two
in that place where the forest
meets the front side
of evening
she arrives unannounced
with darkness
leaking out of her
becoming homeless, now,
unmasked
to remember is to
hold sand
sifting through my fingers
in the dark we learn what is
not our own
