this is the inauspicious bishopric
that deconsecrated your wing
and disarmed your prayer

internally, your landing gear regressed
and your wing-tips dimmed as gently
as the sundown of a pilot’s eye:

dreaming elevators being lately unexercised
with inevitable time the creeping ivy awakens
and the lichen clamours for quiescence

look – the provost 88

these denying moments made silken webs
of spilled reveries and unmade windscreens
whose cold fragments crackled beneath our soles

and,

cordially,

standing aside.

look | read

look | read

look | read

their spheres of ambered brick
in damp abacus streets

then darkness itself replies
multiplying our emptiness

but for the lonely cab-glow
of the southbound trucks

searching for the next
pale imitation of stars

her contours rise, lining
mossy basket walls in the east

and we are cradled
with our backs facing forward

elevated and headlong
like fleeting parents

in the shredded muslin
of our own imaginations

beckoning
from the frosted fells

morning
the sunrise-writer
- warmly
stuck for illumination
yet casting softly
upon buds

my unique id
to someone
‘s intents and purposes
and how easily the “i”
can be picked from
a card index,

or exported
/ re-entered
as a creature,
of journeys,
multibuys,

discounted,
ripped, wrung, overdrawn
and direct-debit-per-quartered
save for that digital death mask