Sunday, 18 March 2012
Saturday, 28 January 2012
Friday, 27 January 2012
Hay pressed into the book of summer
but reading it now
hard to believe
a fiction in blades.
The grass here died and lies
indisposed upon the earth
in a suspended reality
between growth and
This made frame looks down
as if from a great height,
from heaven perhaps,
where judgements are made
because in hell no one cares
Hay to hay and
grasses to grasses
life moves fast and
this grass is dry and
pressed flat so add water
and stand back.
Tuesday, 17 May 2011
Monday, 18 April 2011
Ants crawl, but does that word work?
They angulate and populate,
taking determination to a place
that only insects can understand.
If I lie next to them then
a hundred hundred feet
will navigate and assess my
nutritional value over body weight.
Tied as I am by shadow I remain
and remaining am reminded
by bites unnumbered of my skin
in all its lined and folded subtlety.
Clothes, perhaps, are worn not for warmth
but because without them we might
have leather for brains lying
in a state of receptive ecstasy.
Saturday, 12 February 2011
Walking through the forest with little light,
eyes on stalks
or sunk back into my head understanding that
nothing they could do would help.
Slips of white moon fall between clouds and cut down
in amorphous blooms that carve roots into portions of abstraction.
We begin in breathless anticipation
of a life's headlong rush into knowledge;
young mind open like a flower to receive all understanding.
At a later time the only thing that becomes clear
is that we will never know
and however long our petals hold back against inevitable closure,
we will always be at the beginning and not the end.
Each day I begin again with you and all previous knowledge
sheds a small light on the wilderness and wildness.
We look at one another and our eyes show us only
skin, cloth, a movement in the shadows.
But I am walking through you, however unclear my path
and I know that I will find the way.
Monday, 29 November 2010
After coming down, after
not flying, turning from
a bird into a man
in all realities there was a change
at which moment perspectives
slid like glass doors or
the opening brass tubes of a
telescope and in that action
I was at once bound to earth
and free to soar.
The bird dreamed it was human,
could not lift clear, drift out
across the city roofs and blue sea;
but that was a dream and
the shell is not yet broken.
The bird is waiting.