States of Poetry Poems
Today in Sunday weather grevillia leaves
in turmoil, no evident breeze. A sugar hit. A honey
-eater, upside down at tilt and tumble.
The body also in Sunday mode. The mind
idling on automatic with no need
to be occupied or coloured, having come at last
to the end of a long apprenticeship in learning to leave
well alone. No empire to account to. No
A soft October morning,
adagio sostenuto. Some part
of me is still delayed
in sleep. It is one with
night, with daylight
stars, moths that fumble
at a window pane, bewildered
that this tract of sky,
like no other, will not yield.
The coffee cup, double espresso,
is deeper than it looks.
Each sip I take
a dark reaffirmation. ...
I was woken at some hour
of darkness before dawn by a scent so heavy
on my senses, on the room, that I was convinced
a burglar had broken in
and was loitering
upstairs or in the hallway, or having caught
my step on the stairs above him was lying low
in the laundry, or sitting
upright and unbreathing
in one of the Windsor chairs, unaware it w ...