your nebula tires coming home

is it that stars have fallen

or did we rise over ourselves

i get lost in the crowd

which is so important

to the crowd

i hold out my hand and there seems to be

somewhere to put an end

i have a number that means

i don’t understand faces

therefore i don’t recognise

why we know each other so little so well

the night that comes up from our lives

follows us where we stop

to shed a few crumbs

and look at what is left of the horizon

at the end of your life

a window

a tree that comes to an end

stories cut down for houses

at night we open doors

to try and bring them back

they are buried

in the lake that sleeps

inside our sun