awake with the birds
I distill the who I am
from the edge of light

 

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no longer
seeing fog as it is
becoming fog

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so unexpected
the organophosphate
and the mute bird

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fogbound . . .
the forgetfulness
of a river

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with a spring
all that a tree can
no longer contain

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For Hemi

forty days . . .
Hiruhirama
bead by bead

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park bench --
yesterday's warmth
old news

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melt down —
the trickling half-life
of spent rods

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pond shadows —
tadpoles dress within
old words new

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dew fall . . .
entering her shadow
by moonlight

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mountain mist
the seamlessness
of being

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paschal moon —
light enters the void
of a tomb

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passing over . . .
the livid otherness
of autumn clouds

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the one
who came before —
harvest moon

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moon-starved night —
day's diminuendo
note by note

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Maundy Thursday —
the long day's journey
into night

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the still days —
summer dies once more
to itself

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paschal moon —
blood washes over
our feet

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this autumn
loneliness colours
a hundred leaves

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aging eyes . . .
endless the vision
at dewfall

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dying light . . .
our background chatter
crumbles away

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trickling stream
through a vale of vision
into saline eyes

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trickling stream
through a vale of vision
into saline eyes

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awake before dawn
the cry of some restless bird
shadowing stars

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mud slide . . .
I meet my future self
face to face

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on a ginko walk
the diminishing circles
of the same old words

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a day of few words . . .
the beatific vision
escapes the white space

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Anzac Day
I return from the war
with my self

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whisper-weight
the merging of shadows
after dusk

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unborn night
the city lights
hiding us

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naked mango
ripeness splits open
at the lips

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sycamore seed
the wingbeat of my heart
against hers

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