Anzac poppy —
the first taste
of colonial blood
April 2015
putrid silence
ancient eels sip
the surface
a breeze
breathes about
the absolute
third-hand smoke
what was never before
becomes the all
old age —
cave drawings move
on the wall
shooting stars
my sights skew
inwards
of morning
the best of what was
in a word
voices far off . . .
deep in late mountain light
greenness rises
a fall! a fall!
haiku momentum lost
in Latin
breathless
in the dark silence
of 3 am
exacerbating this nowness of words
wordsmith stone
rewriting (l)intimitations
of mortality
new moon . . .
a glimpse at nothing
right through it
new moon
at one with
the night
wafer moon
between his fingers
a wormhole
womb-dark
the stillbirth
of light
light alight
the ash of words
inscaped
loose-leafed light —
dreams of empire
rot below
words words words —
always the shortfall
from birdsong
lights out —
shadows on the street
divining stars
on our wedding anniversary
one bed
for 360 moons
you and I
in the towns
the rusting debris
of empire
here comes everyone
globalising images
of autumn
long white cloud . . .
here coldness comes
from the south
sea and sky
edge around
seems of colour
new moon —
stars speak to me
in braille
fruitless!
neonicotinoids
take their toll
holding fast the blur of grief
birdsong
raising alarm bells
about me
full of grace
a crucible
of moon flesh
Page 2 of 3