Your eyes were stones cast across a muddy field. They had a kind of glister.
They shone like silver in the moonlight, but it’s hard to find your eyes now
in this world of rocks. A time to cast away stones, this click clickey click
of them hitting each other. The rain is you crying.
Your mouth was that low-hanging crescent moon as if the moon
had fallen over. I remember kissing you, your spit just like water,
your lips like the pulsing heart of a dying deer.
I still see you on that hill, coming towards me with a made-up smile.
Your pupils dilated, your irises shrunken. Your face fronting ships Eastward.
Now, squashed up like an overripe fruit, falling apart so easily,
it seems I turn the other way, see the stars shining, see the birds
whining, see the ghosts murmuring, see something sprout in the
cold wet field.
© Michael Holloway