Poems
There’s no getting away from things. / There is driving, then walking miles / along a quiet coast on a rising tide – / with the back-of-the-mind consciousness / that in an hour or so the sea ...
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Imagine how the light / fell on their desks. / Clerks in rotation / elbowed into the ’30s / with their heated office / coffee unimpeded ...
... (read more)Before you could say Jack Robinson, I was posting / a letter in the box that looks like a lean-to / at the crepuscular end of the mind. The fire-fangled glow / from the South kept sending small birds into the air ...
... (read more)It’s our runaway imaginings that seduce us / away from the meanwhiler pleasures: / even as we cross each i, dot every t, / we calibrate our fantasies like rare treasures, / false memory-to-be ...
... (read more)Tuesday and Thursday afternoons, the rain blew you / into the backseat, steaming and boisterous, my quiet son / and you his not-friend-Dad-we-only-share-some-classes, / or late evenings, sunset dampening down the final lap ...
... (read more)This time around / they say, we won’t / be at loggerheads, // we’ve understood / you can’t measure up, / we’ll do maths & spelling
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a poem is a house into which / words are inserted // permeable, vapour or rain / altering the light outside ...
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When Ishmael escaped from the closed Bible / on the dresser with family names that were // only tangentially yours, you looked to the emergency / site for inclemency and found fire was rapidly ...
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When I scooped fists of never-garden dirt into the song-hole, / I never felt more able. // When these wrists start to ache without pause from the carrying, / why, I will wrap them in a bandage.
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Dusk when the people in the trees / stand out against the dark – // but it isn’t dark, only a deep gradation / of the light –
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