The Street Lights Flick On

The rain we know comes mustily
it holds the sky.
We’re not children

so stay the night.
We can be the flat plain gloaming
of wine-stained doors.

No air can trick its way in here,
forget the girl who kicks the coloured panel.
Talk is luck and not where love is.

Magic. When I lose that word
to the tone of your attention, it is hard.
Everything we’re doing is below us.

One of the fruits of a collaboration with Ryan Van Winkle. See the rest at his blog here.