Jill Jones



     To Dream Wherever Light Goes

We
may be
afraid of need

the
very sound
of a portal

between
that ever
and this reality.

Perhaps
you feel
there’s something hesitant

about
the music
inserted by horizons

though
it once
had been sedate.

Perhaps
the trees
will stand willingly,

sound
strange, tense
like the strings

as
midnight special
to remember, again.





     Scarcities

Note the calm in ruin
thereof sings the morning
the damage darkens
the deceased birds
but the production     useless
warms the skin
with spring         will tell
it is exactly needed
in the switches of emergency

The question will not move
in the screen
and the transformation
of love breathing
     increase

Answering to loudspeakers
infinite poetry of senses
a question of fixing
the end to a given form
manufactured already

Constant abundance
halts memory

that might be destroyed





     Playing the interim

I’m awake until morning with extremities and sills
then drowsy within your haven of questions.

The pattern on my dress has become a procession.
O road of noises and attractions, your dark bright door!

There are weeks when all poetries are night birds.
Your landscape is similar, the luminous dark entrance.

If I connect my noise too fast will it break like esprit
its epithet, a kiss upon the slow song’s nerve?

Through the waste another wing moves above me.
I wake within a secret that was once a crime.

Better in the end to play the interim?
My bets always were slow little cowards.

I rub paint through my eyes. Crisis in colour,
a medium of life, at last, streams down my chin.

I continue opening the present rather than throw it
inside. Words to rain, my hair, your flocculent memory,

if I close myself, nights become heavier,
uncertain as stars un-resisting gravity.







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