Poems
I thought I recognised Sorley Maclean / walking towards me down Niagara Lane. / As he came alongside he said look up, / you can see our friend the sky where the tall buildings / lean in towards each other. I can see some glyphs
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Often I am permitted to spin, / flip, go turvy-top, turning / toward unmade places, / shadows, sites of last chances / in a game of loopty-loo ...
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How much labour in yanking the moon one landing / to the next, yard to parking lot scrub culvert wood, / nightly rate of pills per hour how many threads / of linen go to make up the cold worker’s coat? / It is possible to wish for no power more
... (read more)We moved out from the stone of Mallarmé’s mind, through silence of thought
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I’ve come to walk along the jetty, watch the stingrays / glide around the pylons, their sides fanning and flaring / like the skirts of Spanish dancers, but there’s a large / dog tethered to a pole, idling on low growl, speed-smelling / the wind. Its eyes tell me it is used to the loneliness
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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
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