January 2017

a cicada
clings to silence

a lisp
lip thinking

a sea breeze
encrypts messages
from the edge

advent silence
speaking our language

after rain too
the sea has no colour
of its own

alive - dead
astride a whiplash
of silence

am I to be the words no more

an imprint
of Hiroshima
shadows me

as it falls
the intonation
of the night

awake again . . .
has dawn recreated
the am I was?

a child washes away
from her death

before me
a future who's who
of non-being

dead - alive
astride a whiplash
of silence

dead silence . . .
an ancestral wisdom
in so few words




DT shakes
the cold-turkey of

empty room –
I enter the sound
of my echo

ever present –
is this too to be
our pretense?

eye contact . . .
particles appear smaller
than their wavelengths

eye to eye
the bottom line
still there

fog bound feel for the real



forget them
lest these very words
linger on

good news in the ends of now



grave silence –
a distant fantail
barely heard

heaven-sent . . .
vernix enfolds the word
whispered in doubt

in becoming the loss of now

in the awe
overspilling her eyes
our smallness

inaugural flight
the eagle switches to
autocratic pilot

insomnia . . .
I yawn my way through
some parallel dimension

it is here
a vacancy of sky
and now
a bird