A spiral never centred spinning out the night the pot that’s never fired wobbling left to right.
Tag: Poetry
Ghost, circa 1882.
Where to, miss?
the air whispered
the horses’ bells peeled by the winds
jingling, the horses ready to leave
I turned my neck a little
to see if they were there—
was I ready for a ride?
—but the driver had already turned away
leaving kicked-up dust
of moon-smoke in his wake.
Ghosts.
Their favourite game
is to run run run
up and down up and down
the hallway of the house
next-door.
Rain Landing.
Land on head-tops caught uncovered.
Land on lips and tongues stuck-out.
But By Then It Was Too Late.
We were zebra in the dry-season
grasses scented on the air
trecking the desert
searching
dry.
Creature.
And in the void
there’s darkness
it’s nothing
there’s no up
there’s no down
there’s no now
nobody’s there
nobody’s listening
there’s nobody else in the room
just you and this thing
this creature
this crow
that seems to see more than you do.
The Room All Filled With Sand.
Sea-swept drifts
relentless
had drifted from the shore
to fill the room
through windows
til it was a room no more.
Return.
once washed away
and vanished
made nothing
and reformed
No Love Thrown.
though I was once the clay
and you were once the glue
this broken
ancient vessel
has fallen into two
Verse Unsung.
placed a voice
where there was no space
–
but
it’s what they seem to do
–
the sound
a third as weighty as the rest
–
though no less worthy
–
but
weighty was the counter
–
and being less weighty
–
the voice
was counted out.
–
–
no matter.
–
only verse unsung.
Magical: Day One 