Poems

Born to a seamless ordinance of heat,
Small wonder I remember best Indoors,
The too-small carpets slipping round the floors
And ‘Under the house’, a region to retreat

He meets a man with an icicle voice

who says it is ‘Mind’s disease’

to act impulsively; this man elevates

‘Reason’ to a pedestal, where he worships

at a cold, stony chiselled face, from afar

(& sometimes Peter sees him go up close, to peer,

at something old, cold, & slushy, underneath it –

which, he tells Peter, is a high I.Q.-ed

pickled brain, in a jar).

Today in Castlereagh Street I
Felt short of breath, and here is why.

Antony and Cleopatra swam at Mersa Matruh
In the clear blue shallows.
Imagine the clean sand, the absence of litter —

when life says shut
the most you could muster
moments on a lake
pooled passive
or close enough and whispering
the past and only glory

Down sandstone steps to the jetty; always
the same water, lights scattered across the tide.
Remember we say, the first time.
Our eyes locked into endless permission;

this dark gift; why can’t I let go
and be the man in your life, not the one who writes
your name down for the dedication page;
whatever the name, you know who I write for;

God, the lonely father,
shuffles through the
corridors of heaven,
haunted by angels –
memories of desire,
the source of nostalgia.

- What type of truck?
- A fire truck.

The taper of a cup
sitting pretty in a circle –

You turn on lights inside your head
and after drawing in that mist
soon decide how you must paint