I once knew a man with moonlight in his eyes.
He sat on the bench on top of a hillock behind my house.
Where I grew up in rooms furnished like cabins on ocean liners.

They always say you should go for a walk.
By the sea. To breathe the air. Stretch the limbs.

Eventually, it happens. Usually after a poetry reading in some obscure venue.

As always …
Thank you for a visit,
the goodies,
the chat,

Sitting by a window in the shelter of an
unnamed winter evening,
I solicit words.

Rain hung in the air the whole morning,
like lights dangling from the ceiling of
a dancing hall, as musicians packed their instruments,
and the last dancers started to leave. 

Don’t be afraid,
it will be quick,
like when a leaf falls under a branch, or
the dew rises at dawn, or
the eagle circles the night.  

You are dead, Tin. As dead as they are.

A conversation with an alien.
What is it then? That love you all talk about.

and so it is — the first morning of a brand new year
one none of us have seen before

Don’t worry; it is only poetry -:)!

I saw you coming.
Dismounting by the old barn,
long burned and abandoned,
brushing the dust off the worn uniform
before walking up to the house.

Autumn has creased the edges of trees since the last time I looked.

Some cities have cold hearts, she said,
stone cold,
even in autumn,
when skies ripen with colour.

When I was a gypsy, I walked,
with my mother and father and my brothers,
over meadows, lands, and rivers,