a door-bang in wind    hay-ghosts stacked on oak    whiffs
of cow & horse sorts    whiffs     of dust & smudged light
gliding through slat-gaps   gather    in a gone &     come

gather in specks of outside    straw & grain    bundles of
light    store    a blood of days in a wooden heart    (in comes
field-riches    out    goes fragments of food)    keep light dry

under a high roof   a barn begins     where endings are snapped
& draped & stacked    amongst    a leaking of light into a barn
a chicken picking for crystals in dust    swallows     in mud-

hands that grasp rafters    swallows in mud-huts upside down
a barn throbs in a red light    oak beams ring & resound with
past's saps    a barn is a lap is a door    ajar    is a flapping    yet

still   in a wind where we begin


on her sofa    on her back    staring    at home-parts    fragments
of fractal love    tiny homes within a home    home's vast    vast's
home    she at ease to be knickerless or she may be dressed    in
her best histories    a tiny child's voice heavy and polished in floor

boards    a glint    of barn in her home's shine a     conversion for
eternal cargo    her hearth    holds    out its hot    hand    her hearth
holds a jewel of fire    gleams through humans    a voice of her tiny
child glitters on    edges    of ornaments that mean    a handshake &
a kiss in her doorway    cold beyond savoury smells within    she

stares at her ceiling    sugars    are painted through its fascinating
cracks    her house holdholds an old barn's cargos    a greenery of
home-air    a plant life unfurls from root to roof    its eatableness    her

home-food that feeds her sighs    makes    them fat with song   a ling
ering within    a home's moment    a lengthening    of a second years
ago    a smell    that makes a roof that bars time's rain yet     allows
space    to patter into her nostrils'    caves   into her brain's castle to

     impregnate her untouchable  soul's walls


a hearth holds door-bangs for wind   ghosts
of hay stack jewels of fire    cow-breath glows
through humans    a tiny child's voice sorts
whiffs of horses    smudged light on    edges

of dusty ornaments    a kiss in a doorway gathers
in come & gone    specks    of outside are cold
beyond    light is kept dry within sugars    a house

hold of cracks stores the blood of days    riches
from fields stare at parts of home    a barn begins
a tiny home    within    a vast castle    she is knick

erless as endings snap    a child leaks light into
histories    a chicken picks heavy voices    from
floorboards    crystals in dust have a soft certain love

a barn throbs song    oak beams ring    a sound of a
second years ago   a smell that makes a roof of past's
saps    a door that bears time's rain    nostril-wind

     breath is where we begin



grey slates slight    against    raging sky    yet our rain breaks
its back above us    our chimney lets    all our    grey thoughts
escape    and we are left    with the orange-yellow of a    yes
-terday    our windows are not  for letting    our light in    but

for keeping our    dark out even    without our curtains    our
glass of our house only allows our    light to be trapped    yet
our house is our lamp    each    of us a filament of our house's

flame    we wait for longing's moth to    flutter    at our windows
so our furniture can creak    it's sympathy    for things not done
that could've been    our bricks are red    always even beneath

our grey plaster    our joists    of    our house    once    stood in
our forest    our stone of our house once    rested    in our ground
water passes through our house    via    our cooking & our baths
how our house is taller than our sky it keeps    out our cellar is so

      dark    but a beast in it     sings our lullabies


a round voice    in    the bottom of an impossible tube    is
nearly silent yet ticks    away    a shiny poem coils    of a
whole other    place pull    me in it is thin in    a last place
a shell makes so wide at first a thrush has smashed    a snail

shell on a doorstep    think    of bricks think    of your family
we always wonder    why sky    doesn't flatten a shell with its
simple vast    coiled solid song song    of wafer stone stone
that is a song a crab may live in    an on & on song    a snail

carries around    exchanges    for size & no size    we do not live
in shells because our feet are too big they would not fit    into a
tight pink compartment    where    a shell goes no    further into
the round of all    a world slates    so slight against her    round

voice bright    raging sky with a rain in a bottom of impossible


thoughts escape leave    us free and we are poem    coils
of a whole i am    left    with an orange/yellow other place

pull me in i am    right    without curtains glass is smashed
on a past i am    wrong    part of a flame we are does    not

flatten under dark a simple shell    waits for longing coiled
solid flutters at our round window our furniture    creaks

a song of stone sympathy for things not shell    our bricks
are always red    even beneath a sliding snail our house

once stood where we did not live & where once it did not
the stone of our house is thin shell    because of our bare

feet we pass    through our house    via    a tight pink tube
all our cooking & our baths are wall-less    compartments

in a silent    yellow of shell    we are taller than what goes
no further into a round    sky keeping   out all    a    world

     Mark Goodwin 2005