december 2021




…do you even have a context

you and your egg-shell deities


the brittle pleiades

the pole-and-dog stars


such angels of perdition as these

draw black circles in the air


mark your skin

with images of the universe


and cut away your ears

with fragments of broken glass


and so you look for yourself

in the rich innocence of everything


rubbing leaves into your eyes

pushing back the grass


you, who luxuriously floats

above the rape-seed’s yellow lava


hoping someone will notice

that someone will call your name


this truly, truly brittle context 

black circle at the point of breaking…






…every line of every verse 

is an act of drowning


a long, long flight of the blood 

submerging for air


this ocean’s unique hunger 

an inspiring mania


that repeatedly pulls me down 

into its green, deep glass


where faces that once tried to kill me 

now lie on the ocean floor


their smiles floating 

like discarded, grey dirt


but the deeper I go 

so too the inching pressure grows


of an indissoluble darkness

squeezing the mind


every page a breath 

every word another desperate gulp of air


this endless mania 

this restless calligraphy


this long, long flight into uncertainty…






…thousands of times I have given birth

yet strangely I am still in the same place


by myself unmoved, snared

and although the sleepless decades have unfolded


yet somewhere my vast, obscure lover

is still out there


rolling through immensity

her unique sex a deliverance


her unique soul unbearable to watch 

the vision of another thousand births


as life waits for life

the future snared


by itself unmoved

wishing simply for eternity to come


and eat through the greasy threads

of this vast umbilicus


that covers the eyes

that cries out to all existence


the parturition of stone from stone…