I wake to your

restless soul,

which is, this morning,

like an apartment

tossed inside out

while you rummaged

for the key

to the temperate garden.

Looking for meaning

that we may rest with,

looking for clouds

that don’t wound the sky,

for mountains

that have ceased

shifting at their roots,

we tear up the

floorboards of

contented little

hovels of love.

Don’t lean too hard

on that west wall,

for our lives teeter

over this precipice.

We are so ready to

tip up precious things.

Because they’re there,

because the dark seed of pleasure

was right.

Sediment slips

from the rocks we had placed

at the foot of our cliff.

The buttresses fail

while we wait

for the hardening tide.

If the house and

the garden go over the edge

will you sit with me,

my dear,

on this coast

and watch the

spectacle of a

horror sea

sinking continents?

We’ll be more essential then,

with all the suburbs

gone to the bottom.

Copyright 2014 Ricky Barrow

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