and one not-short:

You fashion a return. The city collects now its snow and ices down like breath,
lights effuse, having been strung from limbs of trees.

You cannot find in the straight backs of men, the clean cut of men
on any street the modicum of him. The ocean you have left
carries you with inertia, always
tugging in the inner ear, the seahorse horseshoe bones of it.

the singularity, then, that
opened up, the pinpoint bloom of lead and things heavier than lead
would pull him in

as you troll the streets in which you imagine --

thinking of the man as krill.

a series of shorts

the sower
in the artful current, ground flows down.
and the river leans blue. the sky twists around sun in pulled-wool turns.

lurid colours of pink and green, the whip-hearted seeds.

the parabolic flow of things only part of the physics we are seeing, the
truncated orbit of falling things

a series of shorts

the haw from hawthorn, the scrolled
universe of a single walnut,
refuse,
me, every morning
i walk past the trees loosening leaves in the corridor of that street

which doesn't rhyme, shoe beats and museum-piece
children echoing each other-like
noise follows a flat-palmed hand.

the pavement freckled with a fat rain, offal of
trees rubbed level by heel, wheel until they've settledlike
spots of black white dalmation, how curious. one peers__

gum, scores of it. moulded by teeth into a flat fate.

a series of shorts

in speaking of the kiss, two hands meet each other's fingers.

something akin said - (behinddoors and instairwells translates to passion she says)
speaking of things, men and women things, the meetings, all of them i tell her

all the times i kissed i never asked permission we never spoke, just went for each other like -
went for each other's--