Year: 2015

I watch athletics with my mum

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All house mirrors have been removed.

 I sit on her soft bed, rest an arm
 on a spare pillow. Mum’s pillows
 stack behind her as we watch a
 tv placed where her dress mirror stood.

 Once she cried as her hair fell out.
 She cried as she gained each pound weight
 because she takes the chemicals
 to stop her dying, stop the spread.

 Once she was ‘petite’, now Mum’s fat

 jowls, bingo wings slop on the bed.

 Together we watch lithe bodies,
 sharp muscle tone dash for the end.

 Her home is spotless, a show home.
 Every day we polish, scrub,
 vacuum, she wants it welcoming.

 She nods off half way through the
 100 metres, I soft clap
 the winner as she would have done.

 I remember good times, and smile
 at her laughter, gleam in her eyes
 when she sees another winner
 dash over the race finish line.

 Meanwhile, she looks forward to Oakwell,
 a new fan of Barnsley FC.

 I never go as I don’t like
 football, regret my selfishness
 and time not enjoying her life.

 She will sit in her hired wheelchair
 yell and clap at their confidence,
 vitality, their will to win.

 Note: Mum died of cancer in 1997

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all kept promises

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day is summer’s horse, called Skin
 who’s smooth mane shines bright
 over my spiral horned cows
 and black faced sheep chewing cud,

 drags their shadows over fresh
 grass like a dark memory,
 ahead of cold night’s black mane,
 nuzzle foam flecks fall as dew

 as I recall yonks ago
 a promise I makes to boss
 of these riches and a blue
 dun stallion gallops pasture.

 My promise that if any
 other man than me or Boss
 rides this horse called Boss’s Mane,
 I’ll know, find them and kill them.

 I hires Lone Soldier, eldest
 son of my neighbour, who makes
 promise lad is hard worker
 and no flibbity gibbit.

 Everyday Lone takes my
 black faced sheep to safe pasture
 returns them come that evening,
 cuts fire wood, looks after Boss’s

 Mane and his 12 mares, I tell
 him about my promise, that
 he can use other horses
 for whatever, whenever.

 Lone agrees ” Very fair deal.”
 and promises to do his
 best, and pulls his rag out
 for whole of sweated summer,

 but one day, some sheep flit off
 he can’t find them anywhere,
 he scours fields for entire week,
 so ragged, he goes to the mares,

 to ride one to search yonder
 fields, but when he turns up, all
 mares scatter, only Boss’s
 Mare stand stock still as a stone.

 If he rides it his promise
 not to will be broken, if
 he decides not to, his vow
 to care for farm is broken.

 Lone ponders that to keep one
 promise must break another,
 reckons as sheep more valued
 and only way to find sheep

 is on Boss’s Mane, judges
 as riding him back in time
 I’ll never know about this.
 On Boss’s he finds lost sheep.

 returns all sheep to their place,
 doing his job as always.
 And as not needed Boss’s
 gallops all way home to me,

 till near my farm, I see him
 sodden with sweat, steam rises
 off his flanks like mist off a
 morning lake, muddy, panting,

 so I know someone has ridden him
 and it weren’t Boss, so I goes
 with an axe in search of Lone,
 and after long chat, I asks

 “Did you ride Boss’s Mane?” He
 couldn’t deny it, so tells
 me the truth. “Thas done well in
 telling truth. I would forgive

 thee but I’m bound by promise,
 and when promises are made,
 bound to be kept, as you know.”
 so I kills him with my axe

 make a decent grave for him.
 Lone’s father weren’t happy.
 Tha can’t break thee promises,
 no matter hassle tha has.

 night is winter’s horse, called Frost
 who’s rime mane darkens more
 over my spiral horned cows
 and black faced sheep chewing cud.

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gather harvest

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offering

 rain to earth
 hard labour harvests
 first fruits for winter

 cuckolded

 I’ll lick out her fruit
 juices while you, her husband,
 pissed, oblivious

 pits

 the last deep mine closed
 Thatcher’s harvest complete
 community dies

 fire

 blacksmith’s wife cuckolds,
 if it’s you, your grain will burn,
 pray for a cool head

 counsel

 uncut grain holds earth
 in secret counsel, as seas
 do not hold sea floor

 conversation

 scythe interrupts grain’s
 conversation with its earth,
 ears no longer hear

 ruin

 ruin oversees cornfields
 must be placated with fires
 in field, hearth and head

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Three about keys

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Keys lobbed in the fire

 Stable job

 Mortgage

 Faithful spouse

 Grateful kids

 Happy death

 passages


 Stable job
 dimples are aligned the same way on each side, meaning the key doesn’t need to be oriented a certain way to work properly.

 Mortgage
 with a cylindrical shaft and a single toothed end that is used to open warded locks. Warded locks, however, are no longer in use.

 Faithful spouse
 with a cylindrical shaft used to open tubular pin tumbler locks

 Lads night out
 a small, flat card that is inserted into a mechanism on the door to unlock it. The mechanism reads the signature, typically found on a magnetic strip on the card

 Grateful kids
 that rotate disc like tumbles, aligning them into place to unlock.  They are springless, and well-known for being impossible to pick

 Happy death
 its small teeth at the end of the key and its contorted blade shape


 fire hardening


 the forest of keys
 inside your head
 sometimes is sodden

 the keys swell too much
 cannot fit the lock
 to grains of thought

 your forest needs to be held
 over the fire to dry
 and harden the key

 to unlock the passages
 between thoughts, harvest
 nourishment from ideas.

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Bright Day

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Wash the hair of your wounds,
 dress them with flowers,
 as the lit torches and candles
 of your wishes and searches
 become bright day’s moon
 in a lake of depth and darkness.

 Tiny ribbons of need flutter
 on oak trees, clay statues of mums
 and bairns throw further darknesses
 into the lap of the moon.

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Picked Apple falls hard for him

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Him on her

agápē

apples, little earths
of laughtered kisses
of words that tickle
of giggle flesh
deep red and green
or change in colour
from one to the other
windfall
or pick one

Your apricots, peaches
and nectarines
a predatory sweetness
invites the unwary
as you feel slightly soft
and pull away easily

blackcurrant berries
swell to full size and turn
a shiny blue-black

incise deep past
the mantel to core
molten with sweet

juice oozes
over your tongue
out of the flesh
out of the month
through holes in the bones
life agape

Picked Apple, woodbride,
 you tend gardens with skill,
 devoted to orchards’ care,
 love fields and branches
laden with ripe apples,

 carry a curved pruning knife,
 cut back scraggy growth,
 lop limbs spread too far,
 split bark, insert a graft,
 provide sap from different stock
 for trees bairns.

 Will not  suffer them being parched, waters twining tendrils o’ their thirsty root. This is your love, your passion,
 no need of lust. Workaholic, closed yourself off in an orchard, posted a notice, ” No Men Allowed”.

Her on him

glance and you’re a scraggy girl darkened in denim,
 a bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
 mollusced fisherman.
 I wake up to a tupped shepherd,
 come back to a wick carjacker.
 Your everyone else, but yourself.

 I can’t pin you down,
 you’re my turning year,
 the first grape that darkens
 on the purpling bunch,
 the spiky corn-ear that swells
 with milky grain; near my toes
 you’re sweet cherries, autumn plums and a mulberry redder
 in the summer,
 a change in the weather,
 a new set of clothes,
 an alteration in the air,
 and I love you.

His seduction of her

You were a challenge. I knew as I
 could never impress you as myself.
 Too young, no prospects.
 Men have to invent
 themselves to get anywhere.

 I wanted to see you all the time.
 So I turns up at your door a rude farmer
 brought you a basket
 filled with ears of barley.

 Next, my forehead bound with freshly cut hay, as I might have been tossing new-mown grass.
 “Sorry. No men. Busy.”

 Another day I were lumping a horses
 bridle in my stiff hand, so that you would swear I had just unyoked a weary team.
 “No stables. Goodbye!”

 With a knife I were a female dresser
 and pruner of vines: “No vines
 here. I’m busy.”

 Sometimes I’d carry a ladder
 and bucket
 as if a Window cleaner.
 “No windows here. Goodbye.”

 A scraggy girl darkened in denim,
 begging a bunch of wildflowers
 for her mam and you said.
 “Nothing wild in this garden, girl.
 Sorry, mowed them all down

 A bespectacled man in a ballooned jumper, honeyed farmer, shy hunter,
 mollusced fisherman.
 “Sorry. Read the notice. No men allowed.”

The Old Lass

I wrap my head with a coloured scarf,
 lean on a staff, sprout grey hair, wrinkled
 as a decaying fruit, caved in hollows,
 thin skin, fungus faced, moles, brown blotches, sour breath, stink of stale piss lingers, and a small spiky moustache.

 She lets me in her well-tended garden, to admire the fruit
 and the fruit of her

 She
 is a Pear’s sweetness salves a searching tongue,
 a Peach’s blush like sunrise
 a Plum’s scent entices, smooth and laughing,
 a Cherry’s scarlet lips rain sodden
 a blossoming branch
 makes bees dance
 a secret orchard

‘You are so much more lovely’, I snog her.
 Then apologise.

 I sit on the flattened grass,
 look at the branches
 bend weighed down with fruit.

Vine and Tree

There is an elm opposite,
with gleaming bunches of grapes.
I tell her with my ancient voice.
“Remarkable tree, and its entwining vine.
But, if that tree stood there, unmated, without its vine, it wouldn’t be sought after for more than its leaves, and vine also, which is joined to and rests on the elm,
will lie on the ground,
if it were not married to it, and leaning on it.’

You reply “It is a tree. Marriage means nothing to me.”

 ” A thousand men want you,
 you shun them, turn away
from their wooing.

But if you are wise,
if you want to marry well,
 listen to me, an old lass,
as loves you more than you think,
more than them all, reject others
and choose Change to share your bed!

You have my pledge as well:
he’s not better known to himself
than he is to me: he does not wander
hither and thither, lives by himself
and he doesn’t love latest girl he’s seen.

You’ll be his first love, and his last.
He’ll devote his life only to you.
He’s young, blessed with natural charm,
can take on a fitting appearance, if needs be. Whatever you want,
though you ask for all of it,
he will do.

He doesn’t want fruit of your trees,
or sweet juice of your herbs:
he needs nothing but you.
Take pity on his ardour,
and believe that he,
who seeks you,
is begging you,
in person, through my gob.

I’ll tell you the tale
of Stone Lass

“Spunk sees Cruel lass from afar
 gobsmacked by her looks
 he gets smitten hard
 and determines she’ll be hooked

 Asks her mates for her mobile number,
 and all her social media pages,
 scours internet for details,
 winds himself up in rages.

 Gets his message through once
 or twice but she mocks him
 ” Fancy me. You do right. I’m gorgeous”
 and promptly blocks him.

 Finds her home and knocks
 and her Dad answers and says
 “She don’t want to know, son.
 Thinks your a stalker. Away!”

 Writes his first letter and posts
 it personally through her door,
 it tells her she’s won and he’ll be gone
 she can celebrate and more

 she can see him lose his life
 which is all he has left for her.
 Cruel scoffs at this but goes along
 for the crack and laughter.

 She sees him throw a rope
 already knotted around a beam
 put his neck in the noose
 and let out a scarifying scream.

 Then she feels herself harden
 stone thoughts
 stone mouth
 stone neck
 stone chest
 stone limbs
 stone heart

 calcified flesh and bone
 she is a statue.”

Picked Apple has no reaction.
Change thinks stuff it
and becomes himself
young, virile and fresh.

Picked Apple falls hard for him.

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border control

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shovel old bark
 into green plastic bucket

 bin weeds
 lay weed control fabric
 in borders
 regain the gardens curves

 cat keeps lying
 where I need to work.

 lay bark on top of fabric
 secured by stone
 all about cutting
 the workload

 Redo
 Redo
 Redo

 break of Bramble wine,
 new potatoes,
 broccoli, rice,
 slice of lemon,
 slice of lime,
 smoked pangasius fillets
 like finny haddock
 with more meat
 cheaper than stock
 diminished cod.

 Back to lay the garden
 fabric
 remove cat, again
 Tailor the skirt
 of the borders

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gear in order

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check tires pumped
gear in order
brakes on downhill

steep to the pit pond
along the Transpennine Trail

hear distant forklifts,
metal on metal in workshops

we cannot see for high greenery
travel under bypass bridges
busy roads

beside sparkling redirected streams
full of bike tires shopping trolleys

across the bridge to RSPB Old Moor
wetland
bigger than we thought

1733 carved on stone lintel
above the door past
a teaching step perhaps

used by John Wesley

use bike lock

eat first on wooden verandah
in sunblaze on first floor
folk with massive lenses

on small cameras

walk to the hides kingfisher
lapwings heron willow tunnels

her flat shoes hurt her ankle

return home uphill

only takes half an hour

sit down shoes off
raspberry wine
tomato and basil cheese
Jacob’s Cream Crackers
and TV quizzes

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rob time of its pace

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Early morning await vintage diesel train
 to Great Yarmouth

 One off First Class Pullman name on backs of armchairs, table light, upturned China tea cups and side plates for

 Complementary tea and coffee and Chelsea Bun.

 Passes Manvers Industrial Estate where I used to work and Rotherham where she used to work.

 Green and golden fields.

 We brought a pack up. Dining Experience too expensive. Pringles and Pound Shop Special Toffee.

 Sun shining. Expecting rain at the coast

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“in the head” with illustrations

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Here is a complete chapbook I’ve called “in the head”. It provides the backbone to a larger piece that is called  “Word Hoard Calendar”. Hope you discover something within it to enjoy.

 It is in four parts:

1. Firegob and Flametongue

2. Woodbrains, woodbrides, woodwives

3. Rivermind, wavebrides, waterwives

4. Gustmind, breezebrides, galewives

*******

1. Firegob and Flametongue

[MEDIA=soundcloudembed]soundcloud.com/paul_laurence/firegob-and-flametongues[/MEDIA]

image

ASH AND PAPER

summer mornings
 my fire
 is snuffed

I have no flaming voice
only a word in your head

 dream of the spelt and salt
 cake I will fire for you

 and before you can seek
 the future
 from the way I burn

 clean my fireplace, clear your head
 old ash and cinders block gust
 makes for poor-burning,
 makes for poor-thinking

prepare my gob
for my tongues
my gob is packed with ash

 piled ash in my grate
 piled ash in my head
 crumbles like walls
 from incendiaried homes

stop wandering off
when I’m talking to you!
 
 ash up against my fire-bars
 makes them overheat
 makes you overthink

 so they sag and “burn through”
 make me virginal
 something to focus on
something for focus

 recall collecting ears
 of spelt in reaper’s baskets

I said stop wandering!

 rake remains of my last fire
 the last fire between my temples
 so ash falls through my grate
 train steam in your nostrils

 pick-off the cinders for re-use.

 my lightweight dark lumps,
 not my powdery un-burnable
 pieces of roasted shale
my exhausted voice

 clear my fire-bars of small cinders,
 clear all my ash, clear all the dead,
 dry bones out of my head

 recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
 like a pint of beer

Concentrate! You are lighting me

fill my gob
 with dry, unfinished paper
 cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
 packed into this brain space
 not too tight, but not too loose.

 keep the paper open & crinkly
 don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
 make them roughly spherical.

 should cover my grate,
 with plenty of space to allow gust
 to blow away focus these eyes

 only one layer, as my tongues
lick paper down

everything on top will drop,
 roof falling in around my ears
 leave it at a couple of inches

 recall preparing the salt,
 pound crystals from the brine
 from a salt pan in a mortar,
 pack and inhale seafret
 cut the lump with an iron saw

I’ll not tell you again!

 paper is to ignite the wood (next),
 the next thought
 only enough,
 too much will clog fire-bars
 cause stack-collapse

 as your paper doesn’t burn well,
 stuff a loose sheet under my grate
 under my thoughts
 light it let my little tongues loose
 stuff sheets underneath
 burn them

 recall forbidden
 reading, books in flame,
 memories of things not spoken
 discarded ideas

I can be dangerous!

 break up my ash with a poker

 recall stir of salt and spelt
 into carried spring water pure
 never touched the ground
 into meal that must be rested

 my pulped treeflesh
I will lick away
 a support for my woodflesh
I will lick away
 a flicker of an idea
 a first layer of contemplation

WOOD

my thought needs substance
 crouched supplicant
 to our hearthmind
layer my gob

 can’t light my coal with paper
 my wood layer is for coal
 as my paper is for wood

 layer on my paper
 small pieces of wood (kindling)
 watch for splinters embedding
 in your fingers for pain all day
 or a heated steel pin to remove.
 with care
 make a wooden-pallet
 a raft of images
 on balled up paperwaves
 to support my coal
 so my imagination flares
 as I burn to speak

 You pray the raft will hold
 criss-cross the wood
 a cohesive structure
 your making of my fireplace,
 my head is layered
my gob is layered
 geology reversed

 as paper from trees
 dead trees made coal
 graduations of image,
 thought and idea

 When my paper is gone
 the raftprayer to hold stays
 a mixture of thick and thin
 considerations
 thin ideas burn easily produce heat,
 thick sustains in depth
 delights my imaginations coal

COAL

like wood is my imagination solidified
 sunblaze trapped
 voices, stories trapped
 build a pile of imagination
 on top of my wood-raft
stuffed into my gob
 have a nice pile in the middle.

Concentrate!

 choose pieces too small
 air-flow round my head
 restrict visuals
I cannot breathe

 choose pieces too big
 don’t get enough licking heat
 from the wood to
 ignite my images

 ensure fire-front is removed
 for maximum air-flow,
 ignite the paper from underneath
 ignite heads images underneath

Focus!

 in multiple places –
 get as much litlick
 quickly as possible,
 heat will feed between
 ignition points

if you will not put your mind on me
I’ll burn your house down
 my water in the wood
 coal makes sulphuric acid
  lick surface off your
brick funnel

 images can sear

 my imagination needs time,
 the fire blaze, cornfield stubble
 while wood and paper left,
 this cellulose-fuel
 heats imagination -fire
 to self-sustain

 your hard images are buried deep
 pressured become harder, blacker
 used in locomotives and steam ships
 pitsweat minehacked proppedimages

 your soft images are nearer the surface
 browner nostalgic soft focus
 biscuit tin tender

 your Imagination produces smoke
 and tar
 when heated only
 when it’s “dried out”
 you get the red-hot
 carbon fire that makes
 imagination so hot.

 Recall tar melting on roads
 in sunblaze, sticks to soles
 coal tar soap photosynthesizes
 calls back its days as a plant

I can be dangerous!

 once my fire is lit poke it gently
 to release ash and break-up images
 that may have stuck together
 through tar production
 sticky mind coagulates

 arrange cinders around
 the edge, add more images
 around fires periphery
 around minds periphery

 do not throw a bucket
 of imagination
 on my flametongue
 always put a
 bit at the edges
 or in the middle.

 the images are poked
poke my licking
 so ash falls through the firebars
 so ash fall through the head

 lift my burning images
 ensure ash is removed
 from under the fire bars

 imagination needs time to warm up,
 don’t smother me with cold-images
 these will kill the lovely heat,
 take longer to burn up.

 pile it up around the edges,
 when it starts burning:
 poke and rake it
 into the centre gradually.

 when lit you give me a voice
a gob and tongues
 listen to my stories
 record my voices

 divine futures from the way
 food thrown on me decays

 how virgin cakes of salt
 and spelt bake
 towards decay in heat
 tongueflicked wild
 jig of ideas

 before I ashreturn
lose my tongues

2. Woodbrains, woodbrides, woodwives

image

Grovemind, groovemind

 synaptic branches
 neuron tipped limbs
 sacred grove recovery

 oakbrain opens doors in my head
 ashbrain spears my ideas
 elmbrain plays the fey

 electric gust moves limbs
 inside my head

 barkskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 senses water roots
 grove in my head
 grooves in my head

between oaklimbs
 between ashlimbs

 her flaps of the wood
 bride of the barkskin
 her inner lips of the forest
 fermented honey drip
 not butterfly laced stained glass

 fapleaf
 lamina mulch make out

 fragile doors into lust
 nympha

 tongue kindly these guardians

ashwives

 grew from blossoming blood
 of Sky’s balls and prick
 hacked off by jagged edged
 adamantine sickle wielded
 by his son, Time,
 goaded on by his mam, Earth,
 distraught at Sky exiling
 her one eyed bairns in hell

Oakface

 Blaze is agog at Oakface
 funking it up in her dance.
 Her dad is a river,
 her body writhes,
 as if under rocks,
 tumbles o’er ravines.
 Her mam is called ‘Many Gifts’.
 She hums her mam’s sweet songs
 as she dances.

 Oakface wants nowt
 of leering Blaze.

 ‘Oh, how cute!’ Oakface
 is flushed when her friends
 find a lost tortoise outside.

 She sits down with her mates,
 puts tortoise on her lap.
 Tortoise writhes into a snake,
 her friends scarper.

 Snake becomes Blaze
 who screws her
 agin her will.

 Sobbin’
 pulled art an afeard
 she runs to her dad,
 River, and mam, Many Gifts.

 Gives birth to bairn
 she calls ‘Both’,
 Takes him where a lotus
 tree grows an hums her mam’s sweet songs as she picks a flower

 off of it
 for bairn to play with,
 blood trickles dahn
 her wrist an ‘both’
 feels his mam’s tit
 harden as her feet
 become roots
 her flesh become
 barkskin
 of a poplar tree.

 Lotus tree were woodbride
 hiding from Penis
 as were after her.

 And bastard son of Blaze
 is left pulled out
 and bawling for his mam.

Whispering forest

 walk among us, as us

 known as oakman
 known as birchwoman
 known as elmlad
 known as ashlass

 Each one gentle,
 one is strong
 one elegant
 all older than they look

 their voices not listened to
 “I talk to the tree”
 “Hug a tree”
 “I am a tree”
 seen as signs of waywardness
 to be laughed at,
 pilloried and scorned.

 later they will scream
 when cut down
 or have a limb amputated

 we ought to listen.

3. Riverminds, wavebrides, waterwives

image

riverbrain, rivermind

 synaptic rivulets
 neuron canals
 sacred water

 riverbrain flows in my head
 fountainbrain channels my ideas
 lakebrain plays the fey

 electric rivulets move earth
 inside my head

 waterskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 senses water roots
 springwaters in my head
 well in my head.

sheflow

 her flaps of the water
 bride of the waveskin
 her inner lips of the river,
 spring and waterfalls,
 fermented honey drip
 not dragonfly laced stained glass

 faplap
 lamina moist make out

 fragile weirs into lust
 nympha

 tongue kindly these guardians

a becomes a river

 One day atta work,
 a goes for a skinny dip
 in a quiet stream
 a knows

 Unbeknowns to me stream
 were a lad called Whitey or Gain
 and he falls for us.

 A flits naked from his wattas
 an he changes into a fella
 an chases atta us.

 I ran until am cryin’
 an shartin fo help

 r boss covers me in a cloud,

 but Whitey, waits watches
 where ma wet footprints
 disappear.

 Am so afraid break art
 in a cold sweat pouring
 off of me a becomes a river.

 Whitey changes to watta
 an mingles wi us.

Fear is brother to Fire and Gust.

 His wife, is called Theft.

 Hard Gust from the white mountains
 teases apart and weaves together
 the nine storm-happy lonely
 mariner hungry bairns of Fear:
 Pitcher, Bloody-Hair, Riser, Froth, Well, Billow, Foam-Fleck, Cool.

 Mariner, amid their cold clamour
 rides their needs, surfaces and depths,
 recalls hearth hug blaze of his land bounded wife, and land hugging bairns,
 masters Gusts warp and weft,
 refuses to be stolen.

4. Gustmind, breezebrides, galewives

image

gustmind

synaptic breezes
 neuron vacuoles
 sacred gust

 galebrain blows in my head
 breezebrain pressures my ideas
 crossgustbrain plays the fey

 electric vacuoles move earth
 inside my head

 gustskin neural net
 circumnavigates damage
 fruited hemispheres
 replenish, restore, reimagine

 wafts electric roots
 touches in my head
 breath in my head

shebreath

 her flaps of the whisper
 bride of the gustskin
 her inner lips of the breeze,
 clouds and rainbows,
 fermented honey drip
 not cirrhus laced stained glass

 faphinge
 lamina blown make out

 fragile wisps into lust
 nympha

 tongue kindly these guardians

stags

stags

The Dead One,
 The Unconscious One,
 Thunder in the Ear,
 Thriving Slumber,
 stags
 who reach up
to bite at leaves
 of my woodmind
 as gusts tear at clouds

when her warm words

whisper
 her perfume in your ear
 tentative, just beyond,
 drags on your sleeve,
 that light in her eyes
 draws you towards,
 hauls you by the collar,
 heaves heaviness onward,
 jerks your lapel,
 lugs what is left in your pockets,
 rags your settled head,
 strains out your ears,
 swirls heat around your collar,
 tows out your thought,
 tugs trepidation,
 tractions flesh into fire,
 wrenches out the forgot,
 yanks back to sharp edges.

A gust in the head.

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