and then again, I am the same tree on the same hill
look you have seen it

here,

your eyes close

shutting feathers down of egrets
lounging in morning fog

tall nudging of estuaries
of reeds, foxglove-purple glens

here,

your eyes are closed

the white is peeking in from the edges
soft memory

plump and poultice

the egrets blush a ruffled wing
unsetting setting dust

the yellow fog claved the fold

martyred the morning
before it began

in a studded wood, you river
sapless stream of spruce bark


-no ailment
-no midwife for the sediment


in a black mirror, the seer
needled to the tree-


two ravens


I know what my future holds


watch as the horse balks
white rind eyes


hopeless as stars

Jean Baptise Clamence said ‘…in all things we are merely” in a way” ‘.


I possess nothing, but what’s in my heart.


But what am I to love? – the cherub morning, my sovereign hands-the sea?
How to love, how to love anything?

Turn to my silence voice of a voice.
Here whisper of you, I have been waiting.

In me you have inspired countries. Strange
devastating realms of cold lands, wet fogs
and steaming lakes.

I am full of canals and you are no where.
You do not even know, that I speak of you..

I am swarming with your absence and you
do not how do you not know my name
or that it asks of you.

Here and elsewhere, littered. Partments.

Untouch my hand that you ungloved so impetuously.

I cannot place it.

You have inspired the only light in me for miles.  
And here I am, talking to myself again-

My eyes become jeweled, the colour of dead leaves.
Yet still you will not choose me.

Fog of smokey neon.
At any rate, you run a great risk.

somewhere in the dewfields a feeling unfolds. it was a noble feeling, but just a feeling.

ah, but nothing can ever hear us now.

save the fields     -     to you I belong to them.
arrowless voices snake the round room,
but you are wearing fox feathers, saying

“what will be, will be”
“say it is so, is so”

here, the room      -     the empty field.

You know of what I speak.
Space lags. I will adjust time.

and in some blind room I make love to you alcove for suffering
as strangers arriving from the sea, a heap of fragments
and unsettling landscapes      nearing something

and for the first time, the deep heartache that comes from longing.

We are using the same words. We are saying the same things.
Mark it. The interchangeability of birds resilhouettes the sky.
One grey line drawn overview. A space.
Bare clap sky. You are puncturing yourself.

All that gas, you think. No matter. No matter.

You will be lighter eventually.

Not before the birds blaze, metric of ash and gust
partitioning a pomegranate sky.

You loved pomegranates once.
Now there’s fruit everywhere.

These little seeds stitched into the hemisphere,
the drive, your hand.

The birds have gone mad. They will not eat them.

How the heart becomes a stone. Of unavoidable weight, sharp as a quill.
I wonder, what stranger’s blood gathers in these gravitous veins?
A picture: black stone. Black hearth.

There is an unkempt room, grey with milklight.

Someone wanders there, as a body dragged into the woods.

The intimacies of half-light loom in the indistinct hour.

Mute weavers- nudging one another,
voluminous and pale.

Light exudes her milky latex.
Porcelain hand,
reaching towards the cool umbra. Always reaching.

All certainty ebbs here, in the achromic film.

The manes of the spirits gap the dusk floating as spectral pappus.

They are shaking.
So many spaces between the gloom.

And yet, only to divert the hospitable darkness..
The opening, enveloping absence.

I want to think of the fireflies, their universes of warmth.
Opening and closing their bodies to darkness.

Always.