in this life
to be as transparent
as stillborn
June 2016
my breath still at the end of it
cold rain –
the weight of stars
within me
where we left them
the bedraggled bits of us
we once weathered
fallen leaf –
a chill wind revives
its presence
shadows as if absently voiced
for James Joyce
Bloomsday –
here how my words
rejoice
for Franz Wright
the mutter
through the long hour
of our death
back as it was
before she left
highway sign
at ease
within itself –
melon taste
hung out to dry
on a wine-dark sea
my emptiness
river fog –
everywhere everything
matters up
along this path
I too
walk alone
solstice moon –
the sun in balance
with its reflection
solstice eve –
my breath torn between
coming and going
it was seen
but now the last cloud
drains away
a dewdrop
fast becoming
its absence
necrophilia –
the ashen taste of Latin
on my lips
a snarl
on the periphery
of ardour
shadows as if absently voiced
here I am
in an obverse
of eye
at peace
in a reverie
of absence
taking time
the efficacy
of now
rose-fingered sky
darkness leaves the trees
in silence
after
the last candle
the parting
winter illusion
a moa tries standing
upright here
morning fog –
my world once more
without a name
sinking into
a stream of consciousness
my poetic wake
winter sky . . .
need I cloud the issue
with words?
light before words were uttered
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