One-eyed

Down at Beauty PointTilting at telescopesUnseen from Bermagui:Cyclopean vision,Star-kaleidoscopedscrub,Stonehenge. The Arabsknew of the ‘frameeffect’, perhaps throughBeach optics. Carnac,and the rest of the atlasfrom Africa to China —our history is myopic,paratactic, an un-Alicedburrow. Intimately social,We look but donot touch.

Cradled

the dead fade in theirshifting cemeteries,the sea long buries thesand,

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the bourdon rarelyrumblesto the rocking coastline ofa hand,

sphincter of morningopens,bald waves play cancerkids,bold pipis march likesoldier crabs,

a loose clinker dinghypowered by Hovis® bread,bounds along a beachlike a dropkicked brooch

you walk and i runin the sandbitten suntime is a clothesline on

a hand

bitten, bitten

my handyour hand

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in duneland

Holiday.

The sky of rumintoxicatesThe clouds are templeblocksA wind bores througheternityInto my faltering heartworld:Two bright breasts ofbirchbarkA picture deep as thesheenOf lacquered roof-tiles(From the topmostI spy from far inlandA gold lash of seaA mirrored heaven).

I am here, at lastThe black and whitekaleidoscopeHas turned and begun

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againA wave is a rolling mirror— As the ant marchespast with its wooden rifleAs the magpies’ dead isthree this summer, and Imust get a birdbath forthemAs I smell the wood ofthe 19th centurycarpenter, stolid, solid,plainAs the flowers simplifymy existence and I growold in the palm ofsuburbiaBy the gold wood ofweeping for joy hangingin the empty Calvarypatients’ room —On this rosemary beachHoliday, and I cannotrelax,Only remember:

… every willow-pond a

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dace-schoolbeside it and myself in aSamsonite-school-case-and-black-tightsIn Ormulu showersmoiré-ing by a fence-slatof peonyOn the outskirts of theinner land city.Honeyskin, the breezeenvelopsWith the double waft of a-mandolinThe banjo triplets, Irishas death(Joyce, ‘An Irishman’shome is his coffin’)As the (s)lime riverramblesunder my handreassembling gems ofthe inlandsheer stockings of sky ina spinneya ridge of white hairs ona dancer’s raised shin

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umber within a cataractof millet mullet malletshavingsand sly is the conker thatsmashes the otherand sky is the conker thatsmashes the soulthe magpie piping fromthe treetopthe limpid starlings on thewire of 1957grave galahsgravid sparrowsand peachbloom-windthe glowering facesat the ebony banisterthe epiphantasyof a leering windmill fandistributing an Arabicduskdry javelins anddustcoversdesert gloam-gold ravensno no nevermoreplumes of tomorrowflayed odours and bright

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icicleson a standpoint of new-fletched arrows— the lusting ruffianshave gone —and green gingham lightat eveningrecalling Frances EthelGumm1

sleeping foetal withgnarled wombatsmarled horizons offorgotten plentyin the feckless hope ofimmortalityand it… three six-symmetriesof discrete infinity away…is noon:On some old washing-blue MondayAs the banks coriolize.

1Judy Garland.

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The symmetry, thecemetery, theshimmering rims of thecarriages of the dead

Of some shiny preciousmaterialDug out of Africa.

None of this will doI ache for you, heart’sfriend,But you were neverthere.

The next two decadesMay be my last— O stalwart optimist — Till I am the husk of mypastOn ultimate holiday onthe longest beachThe silver decades,roiling in fast.

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Agapéαγαπε

agapé summerslender sail spearsspindriftsatori, pressed petals,bamboo globe Madeirabordertumbled pebbles in sand,no apple in sighttalking to branchlets inprime numbersgreen and pleasant landof prime shopkeepersdrowned like a goldfish inairel pebble unido jamassera vencidopondering the nature ofthe atheist’s Godtikkun olam Unitarianwitchhuntstsunami as the ricefieldsburnedbeached

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on my thinking benchwhere my father rested;where do we go fromhere?

i don’t want the nauseaany morewhoever’s wrong, love’sgreaterround revolutionaryhomeostasisspiralling toward foreverlike a capital ellipsis

as the aerobats, earboatsdrone overhead

Merimbula LakeTo the late K.S.

The speckled net curtainsMimic rain, or risingsmokeI go outLeaving the BlackDolphin’s dull carpet

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And dark, op shopfurnitureFrustrated by the jigsawviewAnd that I must pay for it

Merimbula LakeSpreading under a dryskyIs gunmetal grey, butpeaceful;Oyster-stakedAnd ringed by down-at-heelCoastal scrub.A trawler sits, untouched,By the main street,And I hear kidsPlaying cricketOn the beachside oval,Far to the southOf all troubled lands

I stroll round to the lake’srivermouthPast strange houses

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(gone now)Almost overgrown withcreepersWhich with the gumsMask the thumping of thesurf.

On the way backI watch the joy-flightplanesSkim the motel roof,Roaring, roaring,As though in battle:Meekly airsick,I imagine IAm in FallujahOr Baghdad.

Wind

i want to buy a sailingboatto sail round and roundlike clothes on the HillsHoista clinker-built vessel

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floating like a grey pennyat the bottom of a wishingwell

i am bright as a penny inacidas a k i te in athundershowerstring floating highover red rooves

ants

ants on a low concretewallare bubbles in waterabout to boil —i who am so sick of lifebegin momentarily to loveit once againand the clouds are steam(but what is steam)

i have shaved my whitebritish legs for no onebut these ants are not

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melancholyfrothing on their artificialrockfacelov ing anthood orknowing no better

a s t h e a n c i e n twindchimes of myparents singand the clouds steamoverhead …

Nine Wondersnew age, now old age

The sun and me and anicicleSit by a twisting streamThe icicle meltsThe sun wiltsAs I dream.

The moon and me and abanisterSit on a twisting stairThe banister tilts

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The moon peltsDreams at my hair.The cosmos and me andan orchestraSit near a twisting treeThe orchestra swellsThe cosmos willsAnd dreams me.

Starlings

Starlings on the lineare always friends ofminethey live in both thelands I’ve known

They forecast theweatherbetter than any weatherhouse.

They know thatbacon frying in 1957still fries, like fire inHellas and Sparta;

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laverbread gathered thenon a stony Welsh beachstill teases the tongue;and a dead whippetlives.

As they watchthe amber moon leapsinto mute airand leaves the jerseyamazed.So I must love such‘pests’as they tilt their headsand drain the sweetyellow creamwhich collectsin my sunwell.

Far South Coast

motoring toward tathraunconnectedclimbing to 120the beaten copper roaddiving into a long valley

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blinkingat the horizonthe sea everywhereout of sight

some of these bendscreep up on you

all i want to do is divethe salty wavein my mouththe morning cloud helter-skelterchiselled overhead

the car is my temple

i have come to takeanalogue photosbut have forgotten to buyfilmandtomorrow i shall go tocandelo

Anzac Day at Tuross

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things we can’t quiterecall …north of Coila lakegrey clouds mirror thelow rangethe surf comes in like acountry trainking parrots land on thebird-feederlike the arrival of the bee-boxin this paragon of coastaldevelopmentTuross, mate

and I missed the DawnServicesuddenly the sunexplodesan orange US-Bomb overthe seawe’re from inlandnowhere near Hiroshima

the comely clouds pink,

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then cottonythe planet spinsanother profitable daybegins

… how many comradesdied here and dreamed213 years ago?

*long harp of skyglissando of genocidethe busker at the shopsmakes me cry

The World We Knew

The world we knewWas described by right

Utopia the high greenborderWe glimpsed whenyoung

Which our sun rose overLike the Alomogordo

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bomb

So brightEven the blind girl saw it

The pact with the devil,whileWe turned away, haunted

And middled with ageWide-eyed and hunted

Till the visionlessOf our generationExtinguished our sight.

Tuross 2000To Lee and Nick

fish dance like flat stonesacross Coila lake… after fish after fishafter fish …Mojo the dogis working in the shallows

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I sit with Lee andtalk about her Dadand how the house wasbuilt

Tuross Headsnever been here beforebut the fish are at home(and not in butcher’spaper)

or maybe leaving quietly…

Fishpen Boat Hire,Merimbula

we sat on the blue benchoutside Fishpen BoatHirewatching the lakeand the childrena boy was makingsandcastleswith a special mouldcrenellated towers, a

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work of artthe little one pushed twotowers downhis brother pushed himoverand he cried

and criedand cried

the parents madeparental noisesand did nothingand I pushed overand I making sandcastlesand I the sandcastle

was not the parents

not even the father who,too late, as I thought,cradled him in his arms.

on airplay

radio plays in the south-

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pointing carun f in i shed p inho lephotographcheap, not nastygrey whey wordsbrown sugar musicsandy sounds ofsymmetry upended

no yellow eyes yet

morning walks just afterdawndoddering, fat and fiftygiven up smoking after35 yearswalking on wineno yellow eyes yet

saving heapsalmost like apayrisein paradise

how gladnot to be in Fallujah this

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dayhandcuffed face-downbleedingon a police station floorthough the police havedeserted in a minutefor the revolution againstKing George

how gladnot to be homelesst h o u g h s t r e t c h i n gpainfullylike a spayed cat.

Two:Spirit::Magic:…(on ‘gynecomastia’)

magic potionswashed down withwitch’s milkstriking thirteen oncemorein the corn-wavingcorridor of mirrorsof my bathroom

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feel i should wearfishnetsmenarche of the glenmy first bra at 51knitting nancys for a gloryboxstop laughing, this isseriousthe sun roils with rageand bouncesfrom the other side of thebus as we cross thebridgea mushroom cloud hasbeen there all dayas they ‘burn off’ the westtwo suns like Alomogordolike learning to writeyour name on aFibonaccispiral of unknowing

o i am emily

when i see the houselesswashed into the road

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— i feel like a sleepingkittenwhose pink pawsmay be seared by acigaretteo i am emily— in her houseon the median strip ofAmericain the dumpsters ofAmerica

o i am emily— and i am felicity ordoomin the nuclear shelter ofAmericabuilt to shelter from itself

o i am emily— a discalced person inthe roada suicide bomb for a newHadithain her housethe house of emily

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emily emily emily emilyemilya strange name now

‘faith’ is a strangeinventionimperialism toobut on the dark sideit is prudentemily

to forget you.

Tuross Revisited

… and in summer, whereTuross lake meets theseain sandy hollows that sinkunder your feetlike quicksand, withchildren —where only one swimmerthrows his life to the surf

… Iwithout glasses

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am dizzied by the wild-eyed waves, and the seato Aotearoaand unable to see myway backto the hot dry sand thehue of anthrax powderthat squeaks in a millionaccents, a million thong-prints, a million wordsfor sand,awaiting a tidal wave

hundreds and thousandsof grainsraucous at a children’sparty in thebackgroundwatch Italian bees suckthe virginia creeperas the broad beans die inthe heat of Januarywhile the whole worldsmells of tomato leavesbut I am wanderingas I spin round a plastic

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teaset in 1948seeing the world throughgreen cellophane stilland cry for my childhoodand the million yearsbefore I was bornI steal shells and sandwanting to vomitfalling from the shouldersof giantsI cannot cry enoughwithout melting into theearth

and the beach is aprinting pressnot yet bannedand the fish never cometo the hookwhere the lake meets theseaboth feel embarrassed …

To the D.A.R.

Who’ll aid

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AmericansIf you must fighton your Homeland’sbeaches?Will you decry yourselvesas‘terrorists’, to die likeseaweedunder endless steelheels?Do you not hopethat, when theOzymandiac point isreached,and your oceanic Empirefalls,It will be to no Empire ofChina / Russia / Europe,Or God-fearing Iran,Hanging separately,but the RevolutionaryWorld Republic?

griefs of anotherfor K.M.-B.

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grey hubcap moontree crowns shadowredcapped hydrantsfirst stars dim streetlamps

upside-downIa bat in the plum treetry to shareunsayable griefs

fora loversistersonandwaitingfor myown

birds are blown this wayand thatlike pedestrians in a galeskirts and coats flying inwet harmonic air

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and no one is listening …

mortal shuffleto K.M.-B.

my grieving friend doesn’twant long life:with each death our owngrows thinner,like an over-whetted knife—yet still we wonder what’sfor dinner.

Who Speaks Here?

the Kabbalistssays the radio voicesaw words as things‘windows into reality’or out of it(no friends of po-mosemiotics)if you speakthe sand on a Chladnidiaphragm

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will form the lettersof the Hebrew alphabet—marvel l ing at suchgullibilityrecalling my socialistyouthreborn in a new pubertyI look out the windowat the cloudsdroplets massed, eachformed like pearlsaround its dust-grainand wonderwho speaks here?

Nostalgic Lover

When I thinkOf you nowI recall

White violetsIn a flower-press,Peeled tomatoesIn a tub of olive oil,

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Or drying on the vine;Purple ChevroletsIn ‘50s streets like Cuba,Safe for a childAnd driven byPeople likeMy parents;A lane of rose-hips,Ashes that glitterLike vermiculite,Old trowels,And figs which growTheir flowers inside.I seeWillows blowingBack like dressesAnd walk by thelakeshoreAlone.

1972-2005 R.I.P.

)(as the wine cradles mymindand the rock records

scratch at oblivion

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…close my eyes to seeme on my me on my me…a bluebella red weepingin a lone bower)(

dole at 51

my city has a great postalserviceu n s i g n e d l e t t e r sthreatening you withdestitutioncomputer-generateddeath threatsfrom some twenty-year-old kid from a privateschoolhard at work in the onlyGovernment agencyto get more complaintsthan the Police …better to sleep on thebeach and dream of

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freedom

dole at 51now 52 and in a house ilove at lastin the insecure publicsystemin the suburb i wasbaptised inbetter to sleep on abench and dream offreedombut it’d kill me in a week

almost a reliefto nearly die last yearand get on the disabilitypension50% of my liver no longerworks eitherbetter to sleep in a trenchand dream of freedombut i am afraid and lonelyas i was when iwas five

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better to live like a leachand write of freedomsplit infinity and allbetter still to write back

Stillfor Linda M. and agoraphobia

follows me round like ashadowthirteen years of idlenessof void of listlessnessof lethargy of wistfulnessof hopelessness andhelplessnessof child-dreams in thewildernessof holidays of happinessof vacant land in paradiseof the sweeping intoendlessnessof the clean streets ofsorrow …returned to the whitewombfor thirteen years

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hateful emptinesscarried around for a soulstilled by the wasteland’swaste of heartbeats,snug in my marblemisery,wrapping the arcticsheetsof the yearstightly round me,twisted, in a caul,unborn, never wishing tobe born,still embedded in thenebula,still drift: rescue me.

Wait for me!

Hazel skyPolished like the pupilOf a glass eye.Unravelling a rainbow,The chameleon skittersUp the guy-rope of asunshower.

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Here’s the laneThat shuns the earthfor brambles;Its hyacinth windDrifts up to an earlyceilingAnd leaves marks on thewashing,

And loosens the snowdunesPiled round our workingclass chimneys,Waiting for the rain,And corners the catsAnd rattles the gutterAnd powders the face.It feels like lace.The knife bleeds.

Here’s me, open-eyed,Sawing the chimneys offIn a furrow of greyshadow.

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I wait for them:Between my toesThe eternal dead.

Third Peep over the Fan

The glazed heron’s eyesStir in the reeds of thelast river,and my ankles jingle.

The checquered veilwafts,the curtained face seesitself —A third peep over the fanTells me it is time.

I drown age, like a kitten,with the photoof my poppet youth,as the minute handcreepsin a thin shadow —

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Impala-shy it leaps awaylike a springbok or asparrow.

I feelthe last gilded windand the dry drone ofsummer.

It is 1954:

dark as a film noir dinnerpartyfor ’role-playing’ lesbians—The Revolution has beentamedAnd put to workThe cotton bud invented;The shaman pierced bythe numenhears nothing but thehobby horsesrocket over the horizon.The niche is emptyThe nest abandoned

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The athletic girls marchin sensible shorts.It is Year Zero of my life.Into velvet my white bodysinks,a dead tree in a blackriver;one by one the starscome into chase me round theroom.

Red Laketo Anne Frank

red lakered lake

deep as the lacquer onan Asian roof

a back-beat in the airand somewhere a rock

concertout of control

red and poison edgecrushing crescented blue

leaves in its palm

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lustrous, deadunder the daytime

moon’s first quarter.

fenced by gum saplingstinselled by a windy

sunshowera flurry of lights

on a blanched afternoon

the drumsthe drums

operation rolling thunderphoenix

desert stormIraqi freedom

and the red bells ringforever

Iris

our granular darknessis a daub of soft shadowina pinhole camera under

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the cupped hand’s eyelid-closing ofa Chinese elm in darkwindupreach wild limbs, rakethe lightening sky into

crisp ruffles of melaleucalike the new light greenpaint in our hallas fresh as carnationwhen we met on oppositesides of the mirrorthe ruched hills seemedbreasts in darknesstoday I met theparaphernalia of myyouth in a museum

so smile wry horizontime is an iris in darkness

I am not worried now

Western Backwater

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locked horizonmy house locked against

mesurround my house

surround mewith the pit of night

wherein I sit emotionlesslike the shadow of smoke

on a page

safe in a bramble utopiasafe from the child

without handssafe from the land mines

of lifesafe as the blind pits of

obediencelittle pits dig big pitswhoso diggeth a pit

falleth therein

my soul has beendisappeared

by your absent lovebravely I hug my

cowardice

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like a pillow

joy is sadder than deathand dies sooner

Red Glass

garden in a handkerchiefmoss sprouting moonlightin the cornerunder red glass and holly

censorship liftswords fall apartwe accept the deviantsthey’re the same as us!

love’s the answerthe question is how?till then dwell in a worldbonzai’d to perfection.

Turning

Return to the twiggyyellow field

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And talk under the starsAbout things to rely on:The acorn of polishedwordThe winter morning oftracing paperThe greenock’s depthThe thicket of moonlightin your hairC h i n c h i l l a a s h e nmorningsCha ins s i l en t asspiderthread woven intothe hazeOn the meadow the sizeof a child’s roomSly golden valleys likecupped handsWherein the cat sitswashing under a bluebell;The world is theirs: theuniverse is ours.Inside the rosebush thered suns set.Over the hills the blushrises.

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Under the world thesprings bounce.Upon the lake theshadows are reeled in.In my soul a child is lost.Horizon-bound the windsflame.In the eaves thesparrows are reborn.We are urchins sobbingfor the north windThat has been taken fromus.Justice is what isreturned.The circle of our world isan iris;Return eternallyThe new departure.

growing up

Fuck me deadshe saidyelled itinto the hushed

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vestibuleof the art gallerywe giggledthree big kidsor three and a half(she was six monthspregnant)the owner wouldn’tsurely wouldn’trouse on someonein that condition

Fuck offsaid the girlon the crossingwrapped in hot defianceher voice a blowtoo soft to stunthe hipless girlwith the miniskirtand the funny walkShow us your dick, lovethey’d yelledwhoopingfrom the sacred siteof their growling car

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They wouldn’tsurely wouldn’tthey were pissedprobably, and allmouth and trousers

There’s Abos in theresaid the copthe slovenly uniformed,reasonable slob,pointing at the scrubnear Prince Henryhe didn’t need to yellthere was no needto reply

hippies everywhereflowers dyingin their hair

In Little Baywe sat uneasilyembarrassed by freedomTurn that bloody radiodownsaid the beer-sponge

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on the gatewe were allinvigilatorsthenexamining each otherfor blemishesThere was a shrubgreen as flaring saltbetween the hospitaland the jail;we expected Mosesto make an appearancebut he didn’t.

Little Bayhad not yet beenwrappedin coldcuttingplasticby Christo.

ResponsibleManagement

It’s sad really —

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she’s made this errorjust too oftenBut don’t ever tell hershe’ll just argueshe’s good at arguing

She’s bored with usshe saysshe just doesn’t fit insome sort of artistNo good at teamwork,just dreamwork — ha ha

She just performsthe less complex duties

So easyjust like housework …

Just whinges all the time—she’s a Sapphist, teehee, isn’t she?looks like one

Phrase-mouthing

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groupthinkis all you get from themjust big kidswho won’t take onfamily responsibilities

Better to expect less ofherjust let her concentrateon this onesimplething

Ern Malley Poem

Ern has recently contacted me fromb e y o n d t h e g r a v e(ouija@board.com) and inspired thefollowing effusion. (I take noresponsibility for it whatever.)

La Belle Ram Sans Percy

I haveIn drear parks dead atnightMade ribald interventions

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In the spangled pallorOf the umbelliferous sky,Clutched intemperately atthe promised fingerOf Dawn,Early as the iron ravenwhich pecks sweetlyAt my horn- l iddedwindow.I heap concupiscenceupon myself,Lugubriously quickeningthe suburb’s reefOf dark symphonic pain.Not ions of d iurnaldeglutitionHamper my oysteredmindAs matinally, I ingest mymilk-bathedGifts of Ceres,And sip the jaffa’s ichor.These grave chalices ofgriefPraetertransubstantiation-alistically squeak

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Like the gates of HellslowlyParted like a cunningmaiden’s thighs,While iridescent whiskersof Vaughnian lightTickle my Fancy’sburnished drossAnd fall, like the buttocks’Glacial downward creep.

Inland Sea

the sun runs with lighta crumpetbuttering clifftopsthe size of Switzerland

at the lipthe gold rilldares the chasm

i hearthe wail of windin a windless place

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in perennial shadowdroplets dimplethe inland sea.

the new burning babe

red kite in a red skythe string burns yourthumbtime is a kittenby the fireturning and stretchingwhen you are youngand the cities blazefar awayyou are tugged painfullyfrom the moaning hillreliving the news pictureof the child like youburning

Going to Wee Jasper

dancing on the slopes ofautumn

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winding through thegreen, greennorthern ACT where Ihave neverbeenNarnian country

my life has been one longyearning forEl Doradomountain ranges in myhead that can’t beclimbed— there is no progresswithout barriers —now the car’s a toy …

And you … ?

Stylish steenless stalemugs for sale, by Spooner!

In the corner-shop of mydesireHard by the ingleCloudshade racing ahead

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A fire-engine bell andbrass bubble carsWhisk by the school-libraryWhere Miss CreoleCrinkle stacks book-dustAnd counts the raindropsIn base threeIn the glare of the skylightJealous of Julia’sreservation of theAmstradThe law amblescorpulently, and life ismarmalade sunAnd sequestered whitesweetshops.The cobbler breaks windover his knee.Lavender frills

crumple beneath goldencurlsThe baily berith the bellaway.Julia will not get up this

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morning.

This is the church andThis the steepleOpen the door

In the cityFor three daysAnd three nightsThe smart bombs fall

Ag-

Silverfish 2001

silverfishI rescue from the dry bath

with a square of toiletpaperin the room my fatherdied

as I did as a child as

now in the cemetery

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again— missing an interview—by the grave with thecolour wheel spinningnot quite managingto bring all the colours towhite …while l i t t le plantedwooden birdswhirl clipped wingsover the chi ldren’sskeletonsso deep in the soilas never to smellor cry up out of theground

on a hard bench I writea year nearer fiftywithmy father’s concreteheadstone in the distanceits new flowers bird-tongue-redagainst the couch grass

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he hated

twenty-four hours afterRemembrance Dayand more than a minuteof silence since I saw thebluenessbeneath his earbefore they screweddown the coffin

I wonder why Iamthinking insteadof the war of terrorwhere the daisy-cuttersbury more than the box-cutters

and of the silverfish thatwill chew up this poem

— how shall I goand explain itto the Job Network?

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I remember my Manxfathertalking of a man in theR.A.F.whofrom a great heightflew his Spitfireinto the tarmacand buried itup to the tail.

I see no silverfish herejust the far mountain windscreaming full throttleover vanished lives.

the homeless onholidayto the wealthy of Merimbula

cold, simple stories

told as we hitch laughingwitch-likedown dark highwayravines

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hewn into the heartwoodof the land;

hush!in the moonlit valley, wehuddle at midnight,gazing back, each of usragged as an old broom;chiselled out of mist, thebrooding range,perched on a dust-moteof eternity,walls us up;we shamble via Candelofor the coastto spin out on Merimbulabeach,that magic crescentbutton fastening earthand sea,

glittering under thegibbous moon,half a k down from thecliffside mansions,dreaming and cold

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as we pass —the small girl is bullied, bythe deep waterinto which she isfrightened to jump:fierce, familiar fire licks atmy heartthey do not know you,precious strangernor our road to the falsedawn empty as the dole,to the New Jerusalemthen it is morningtiaras of light in a tall skya racing rustle in thecoast-scrub,snake or possum orfugitive;

smoking, coughing,nibbling at seaweed,we retell our stories likesuperannuated socialistsas the sun bloodies thesea:the wind casts Lilliputian

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volleys,the tide licks our toes,may yet baptiseour long, dry shadows onthe moulting sandhills;beneath the crown-of-thorns cloudmass,stories weave breath intoshelterround a faltering fire ofdriftwood,storiescold and simplethat dwell like angels,within ourselves, alone —

like wave-wash, like surf-hiss, like justice …

first contact

blade of jagged swordbecomes edge ofcontinentsilver lure skims sandpilots have five ears each

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make us all stand in ourbikinisand steal our earrings

Epiphantasy

stars attract methey’re the nearest i getto godand the moon in itscradle of cloudnaked on the balconystaring upfrom my bassinet at starsand spinning inside