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

sharpening an end to end all war