Atlantic

He is the Sea.
No questions between.
No fury mistaken.
No contamination of state. Of intention.
All pure contemplation.
All father.
All invention.

He is the Sea.
No fear of rejection.
No knowledge withheld.
All death, resurrection, is welcomed. Is done.

He is the Sea.
Is father.
Is son.

~

the land is a tongue

Some Question

Small Woman
puts her shallow footprints
in the shale-coloured sand - wind
winds her long long strands
in its fingers - dark sky
blue beyond grey
as it hinges on twilight - the
lingering sunlight as cold
as a clay tomb.

The Minute
has such room for
change - transformation - sirens
signalling each station of its
cross into night - its
shift - the cold salty lifting of
stars - of the moon

all
held
in the
hands
of some
question.

The Boy

The boy masked his face.

Pasted it black with a stroke, stroke,
the tack of the polish,
the smack of the paintbrush,
all joy, all grim, all primal and strange.

The boy wound a wire.

Wound it around and around his neck,
found the feel pleasing,
unexpectedly thrilling,
his reflection a thing to unnerve and admire.

The boy took the stair.

Trembled to think of the party ahead,
his heart in his throat and
his throat in his head,
a dreadful step taken - all - up - in the - air -

After

Drunk beyond
speech
we rolled into
sleep
folded like jumpers
all arms and
torsos
tangled the
sheets
with the blind, mashing
force of our
wash, our
dry, the
dark drunken sleep
of my darling
and I.

Mooncroon

cloudcloudcloudthefaceofgodthefaceofgodthefaceOFgodthefaCEOFGOdtheFACEOFGODTHEFACEOFGODtheFACEOFGODthefaCEOFGOdthefaceOFgodthefaceofgodcloudcloudcloud

In the Afternoon

I drift in the warm waft of the gardens, between
the sweet sting of things that have been. Tempted
by theft to thieve the things left but I leave
them. They belong here. And I've already stayed too
long here.

He was Sleepwalking

he was sleepwalking

called to a
red moon

thrown from the throne
of thought

all impulse
all want