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

 

no longer
seeing fog as it is
becoming fog

so unexpected
the organophosphate
and the mute bird

fogbound . . .
the forgetfulness
of a river

with a spring
all that a tree can
no longer contain

For Hemi

forty days . . .
Hiruhirama
bead by bead

park bench --
yesterday's warmth
old news

melt down —
the trickling half-life
of spent rods

pond shadows —
tadpoles dress within
old words new

dew fall . . .
entering her shadow
by moonlight

mountain mist
the seamlessness
of being

paschal moon —
light enters the void
of a tomb

passing over . . .
the livid otherness
of autumn clouds

the one
who came before —
harvest moon

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

Maundy Thursday —
the long day's journey
into night

the still days —
summer dies once more
to itself

paschal moon —
blood washes over
our feet

this autumn
loneliness colours
a hundred leaves

aging eyes . . .
endless the vision
at dewfall

dying light . . .
our background chatter
crumbles away

trickling stream
through a vale of vision
into saline eyes

trickling stream
through a vale of vision
into saline eyes

awake before dawn
the cry of some restless bird
shadowing stars

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

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

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

Anzac Day
I return from the war
with my self

whisper-weight
the merging of shadows
after dusk

unborn night
the city lights
hiding us

naked mango
ripeness splits open
at the lips

sycamore seed
the wingbeat of my heart
against hers