full moon abandons
over fields of snow

silent trees measure
what we already know

we wait in wonder
a lifetime ago

being early, we can write a while,
unstressed by the ticking of the
clock, keeping words in order
in lines, of no principle. all the

photos were hazy, must have
been the walking, smartly
before the opening time,
the lay line, arthur’s stone.

is at the mill.

the river
wrapped in a coat
of cold grey stones

slides
its icy lines down
through the mountains

the trees
long leafless
and now heavy with snow

are ever patient
for the moon’s return

this is the season
we grow old

this is the reason
we grow young

they forecast it,
we do not listen any more,
just check the window.

the radio is old, retro,
gift for a birthday,
arrived late we did not say,
not
wishing to upset.

headlights flash, sheep
on the road,
the pheasant run, a pleasant
run, minding squirrels, other odd
furry things on the road.

hurt no living thing.

it rained all day, new
dress on the line, still wet.

hush—silence;

a regimented, simple production.
the clock makes sound, birds chirp, people are people all around— i see them, i am not of them, i let them pass through.

a car packed for a camping trip—the same trunk filled for the tenth time, most likely.

a certain focus—a gaze fixed somewhere in the distance between near sight and far,
a view undistorted, undistracted,
eyes conjuring hypnosis.
deadlines as games, percentages just a form of play, pressure nonexistent.
the order—a construction, all pretend, yet, more real than anything else.

momentum fuels momentum—
whole, and,

at peace for once,

mainly

google brings strange memories.

my friends talk of the coat hanger
effect. hanging our wares on each others’
shoulders, bearing us all down with the weight.

share it out they say, with friends and family,
loose and flowing, mind your engine does
not pink, we must have finer fuel. not feeling

our true self can be an infliction, the grave digger
reminds us of our years, our sense of humour.

we stare at icons, hope for a better price,
i went to the market yesterday.



notes ** maybe place in cupboards,
boxes, close the door, the lid,
carry on, carry.

seeping beauty
melding

cosmic roots
in concrete

earthen mix
senses

leaking songs at dreamtime
a bird responds indignant
'you stole that from me, last night'.

confirmation comes in myriad ways
sometimes by deepening poetic sounds