“No Clouds” by Charlie Baylis




There are no clouds. The morning comes
heavier than an anvil, what is it that
you stayed for? No clouds, your hands

are wet with dreams. Kiss me
the light is falling apart in your touch

flooding our bodies, your hands are wet
with my dreams, there are no clouds here, what
tears me apart? Ever present, clipped hair

alert to the green mountains, telephone line
in a loose touch, grip the clouds but
they are falling apart, the morning comes

then there is a sense that heaven has ended


Charlie Baylis lives in Spain. His critical writing has been published in Stride, Neon and Sabotage Reviews. His poetry has been nominated for two Pushcart Prizes, the Forward Prize and for Queen´s Ferry Press´s Best Small Fictions. He was (very briefly) a flash fiction editor for Litro. Elizabeth, his debut pamphlet is out now on Agave Press.