sycamore seedthe wingbeat of my heartagainst hers
naked mangoripeness splits openat the lips
unborn nightthe city lightshiding us
whisper-weightthe merging of shadowsafter dusk
Anzac DayI return from the warwith my self
a day of few words . . .the beatific visionescapes the white space
on a ginko walkthe diminishing circlesof the same old words
mud slide . . .I meet my future selfface to face
awake before dawnthe cry of some restless birdshadowing stars
trickling streamthrough a vale of visioninto saline eyes
dying light . . .our background chattercrumbles away
aging eyes . . .endless the visionat dewfall
this autumnloneliness coloursa hundred leaves
paschal moon —blood washes overour feet
the still days —summer dies once moreto itself
Maundy Thursday —the long day's journeyinto night
moon-starved night —day's diminuendo note by note
the onewho came before —harvest moon
passing over . . .the livid othernessof autumn clouds
paschal moon —light enters the voidof a tomb
mountain mistthe seamlessnessof being
dew fall . . .entering her shadowby moonlight
pond shadows —tadpoles dress within old words new
melt down —the trickling half-lifeof spent rods
park bench --yesterday's warmthold news
For Hemi
forty days . . .Hiruhiramabead by bead
with a springall that a tree canno longer contain
fogbound . . .the forgetfulnessof a river
so unexpectedthe organophosphateand the mute bird
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