“I have loved you so much that I believe I understand you a little.”
Marcel Proust

we are wearing our glowing skins
full of unwoven whispers
or au contraire
we’ll have worn them
-who knows
in poetry, not in theory,
anything is possible-

one of us could say
“take this animal
out of my eyes, teeth, bones
for wild flowers
to grow in my sockets”
and I’ll say:
“for my eyelids to rest
in the shadow of your breath
and my vertigo, indigo
in the nest of your palm"

-words are just riverbeds-

see you - the sea in me
at the echo point
of blood

I’ll wear rivers
lipstick
bluebirds

in this poem of touching
every cell is spinning
its nucleus of *numinosum
while the day breaks open
into the heart of trees

-words are stones of silence,
unintelligible altars-

I was in love
with a vertigo man
last time I checked

blood has its madness

And if these words should touch your heart
when dance they will past jaded eyes,
weave subtle smiles as tears depart,
from broken hearts and pretty lies.

And if my song it moves your soul
to dance in rhythm to it's beat
then I will sing until you're whole
and darkest fears admit defeat.

Then I will know I've played my part
in bringing light to fractured shore
and I will keep your hand in mine
until the darkness leaves your door.

black mussels de-bearded, shine
water, yeast-beer, hops
combine enticingly with
ginger, chilli, lime
and much garlic.
simmer, then....
gorge!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

the old pine table,
was scrubbed daily
with a mixture of bleach and salt,
and then sluiced
with clean ice cold well water.
it had a felted softness to it,
a wonderful tactile memory
i am still unable to explain.

sat out upon the balcony,
overlooking the beaches
and whale island.
caught both the days sun
and a short substantial breeze.

it was an oval behemoth of a thing, would easily sit twelve adults,
at a christmas feast.
but now just one or two,
excepting when we arrived,
on vacation, then a half dozen neat.

and on most mornings,
big broadsheet papers.
spread out, anchored down,
by oranges and bannanas,
sea shells and driftwood,
teapots and coffee cups,
whatever was to hand,
scattered haphazardly about.
the rule was if you took a bit of fruit, or whatever,
you had to supply a new anchor.
so as the morning wore on,
fruit became books and toy trucks, teddy bears and cricket *****.
all presided over by granda,
as he worked his way
around the news,
spread before him,
like the hands of a clock.
changing seats, irregularly,
with a sigh and a plop.
muttering to himself,
or calling out to gran,
news of suggested import,
or the "specials"of the day.

that old pine table held,
the world spread out,
for intelligent disection.

i still can feel, it's surface,
like rolling, polished pearls.



.....no still not explaining it,
at all well.