Poem
2 am. Prompter than usual. Nocturnal emails, / a commonplace book to aphorise – fillipia! / I write to someone in Oxford, then Wagga, / pondering the etiquette of commissioning / in the middle of the night.
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I have two eyes and almost two noses / The lips of one face curve to meet my second / Neither of them look straight ahead.
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Nightfall on the sill. Trinkets, hardened dust. Sky / in the gaps of a broken comb – the medley // of towers, antennae. The city: a queue / for dinner at a swish place, or a catwalk.
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The joy of rhizomes. / Four makes of bamboo / volunteering everywhere, / a kind of supergrass. / ‘Hello, it’s me.’
... (read more)There could be someone, there, walking through a forest – upright or / slightly bending – gathering, not berries, or fallen nuts, or mushrooms, / but thoughts; there could be thoughts like whining insects that drill down
... (read more)When life hides behind the mulch / of what lives, can they expect more / than this refusal to hold each other in the open?
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What is the use of a full moon / now we do not harvest by its light? // There is no one else standing here, / lifting their face to the star-studded sky.
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Because of its gloomy appearance the building is like a defeated army, and the gloom is so heavy it makes handling difficult and postage quite out of the question.
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My husband has returned. A traveller whose flight was cancelled has found his way home. He slowly unpacks while I make space for the unexpected.
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Beneath the Creator’s reach, the Golden Ratio / of tourist thrum stirs guards to the mike. / Silenzio. Silence. No photo. No video.
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