Oftentimes I may find myself gazing at black swans as they glide in and out of the twilight hours of an inlet's low hanging mist.
 
At my desk too, I grow attentive to the memories of things that I have seen, heard, smelled, tasted and touched as they again seem to become enfleshed. 
 
Once more the smell from the steaming afterbirth of a newborn calf, the sight at dusk when, with the sound of an eyelid's blink, a blackbird parts the shadows to settle upon a branch within a tree's silence.
 
I feel just as truly the rough-tongued clasp of a sea anemone around my finger-touch to its heart. I taste once more the austere sacredness of my first communion host and the sound of my breathing as I enter the stillness where I become at one with my absence.
 
As my body slows down, almost fully engorged from the lust of the senses for the world it dwells in, I listen to the music of my mind interpreting the nuances of meaning, the subtleties of connections.
 
 
ancient pond—
the everywhichway
of words

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oh wow!
the M-theory
of it all
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birth cry —
a moment's coming to be
of what wasn't
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star gazing —
am I in my body
or not?
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such a path
unfolding within
a tree's warmth
 
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twilight chorus —
the song carrying through
to silence
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light too brief —
the opening of words
to their source
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at rest
light and darkness
overspent
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groundswell
beneath the all 
in all
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ingasp —
holding the light
no longer
 
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nothing . . .
all over in less
than a second
 
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the hour glass
waste
of her words
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in between
day in — day out
almostness
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dawnsong —
dark matter
with a voice
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just being
also itself:
a lily
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nine eleven . . .
time unravels the heart
of our darkness
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rumours of war . . .
the shadow of my breath
darkens a dead sea
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awake with the birds
I distill the who I am
from the edge of light
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the all
that's missing
the words
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earth rot . . .
such mystery scenting
sweet nothings
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headlong spring — 
what words to part meaning
from the song?
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an apple
here in hiding
nothing more
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noonday demon
my longings define
their form
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light enters
the delirium
of the now
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the fog
of the familiar
trips my lips
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spring trickles
through the hieroglyphs
of belonging
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losing heart
a loss of words
fills the air
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fire curl —
a poem's orgasm
of pain
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now and then
death with a life
of its own
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soundless by starlight —
the poet sipping darkness
from a mirror's eyes
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old man pine —
fire comes into
its own
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spring pathos —
a poem strains against
its string of words
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dewspring light
awake once more
to a once world
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long white cloud . . .
how much more lonely
must we become?
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with nothing
in reach, a stick insect
holds fire
 
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drunken wind . . .
a willow flails
at nothingness
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keeping watch
sky travellers redress
the balance
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five eyes . . .
I avoid winking
at the moon
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keystone cop —
impeach blossoms
litter my path
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an albatross
drowns in the absence
of a before
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after death
her absence fogs over
under words
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a morepork
until it loses itself
calls its name
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undivided
a cloud ascends
into infinity
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footfall . . .
the dull thud
of waking
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a spring rain
agitates the clarity
of its pooling
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first light
the fall from it
all around
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spring storm
my future slows down
for my shadow
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theta waves
splash the plimsoll line
of my words
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a haiku
without trying to be
Japanese
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sharpening an end to end all war

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