a drop
of water ripples
through wine
July 2017
mussel bound
my beard to the rock
of doubt
slivered moon
my lips come to grips
with wordlessness
frost-born day
time now to hear
the soundless
imagine this
see it comes to you
my sacred tree
burial mound
another myth lives up
to its name
given voice
my poem respawns
as vapour
between you
and the you I am
the sound of
birth-gasp
my head passes through
the sweater
sepia-stained
I pitch my tent
in the past
in the void
of non-sense
— nonsense
when time was new
and space a waking dream
the verb to be is
in congress
with the ineffable
these words too
words writhe
to the serpentine grace
of my pen
this! this!
nothing of night
not known
so much depends
upon fireworks
in the fog
of war
death-dealt
night pierces
the anima heart
the other self
slipped by a shadow
you in I
the dream-time
darkness envelops
all the same
