all innocents . . .
some faces less livid
than others

twilight dusk —
the bruises of life
less livid

with the sea
the rockpool of friends
from my hands

southern cross —
these arms weighed down
with night

tui —
i hear half
its song

roadkill —
the fly-blown voice
of the unborn

breathstop . . .
a praying mantis
shifts weight

another moon —
still the otherness
of her body

freckle-face
her wrinkling nose becomes
newsworthy

never alone . . .
blanket man paces out
the southern cross