Jack’s Land

Others joined me

halfway to the crossing,

battened in windsheeters

and Tesco plastic,

clutching all we had

to sell.  On the cusp

of Jack’s Land the cranes

shy away but there are snipe

strafing for infant buds.

In such a place, someone said,

lunatics will sprout

like apartment blocks.

I’ve dreamt of too much

nothing since we arrived.

The highway back

to Berkley is a mile

beneath water.  No-one

is returning my calls.

The Gooseberry Wife

In certain spaces

we’ve felt her presence:

hungover osiers; a bathroom

unveiled before dawn.

Our words have shattered like cartoon

coyotes; she has begged me,

by the canalside,

to bury her caterpillar

kisses; we have worn

the T-shirts of each other.

In these certain spaces,

my flailing hands are

naked shears. Her hands

are ripe, like thorn.

Copyright © 2008, Jon Ware