A surfeit of nectarines

I have clean earth in my hands

You shake, a sea of trees

Humpty-dumpty falling

I am drunk on nectarines

Face half bellyache green

The obverse

The deep maroon

Of summer’s lost eclipse

Clouds thin as desperation

Where we once bent like ships

Buoyant but

Never quite losing

A carefully layered union 

There is almost nothing

Left up here but sky

And your warm-honeyed faced

Swollen-cheeked

Jack-knife crooked

Strung on the limb

Turn aside

Far away

Water breaks, rejoins

Curves like swans, dissolving

The heat is a churl 

The unctuousness

Of sickly pine

Arm in arm we go inside

Laugh-collapse

On the ricochet linoleum 

The Day My Kite Flew High As The World

Caught a blue day
On a sharp paper wing
Thin throat a-howl
Until the looped string
Broke with that strange
Updrawing weight
Of a new jealous wind’s
Stray trumpeting
Gone almost too high
Almost to glass
Almost as thin
As the last shard
In your blue orb’s
Sun struck glance
No longer you
No longer me
No longer see
Gone paper thin
A scrabble of ink
Through translucent skin

Arc

Slug trail skies
The day in x-ray hurts
Where I pull
At the blinds
To dismiss the shapes of frowning
Dust spills a mica race
Like promises in the air
Far above
Rorschach arcs
Where jet planes
Have cut between
We drift in parallelograms
Apart
But for this too complicated screed
That we laud in hailed contexts
What in more intimate reflections 
We dismiss
A shell of broken porcelain
Once devoid
All meaning becomes
Tenuous as inconstant praise
Your mouth the sun
Behind hard clouds
                                     slowly spoken 
Makes the shape of                             doubt                              
                                     slow forsaken

Artefact

You say

morning people

aver the sun

spilt homilies from

hands bent to dismiss

for too long

I refuse to let things pass

jealousies, an arc weld heat

the bronze, once globulous and molten

rigid in that deceptive, ugly shape

of desert rivers 

I will lay here

for a thousand years

inconsolate as sand

until I almost evaporate

still, that mica glint

when you pass and

almost catch my eye

Is

as bright as drowning

once again

Ode To A Dead Starling

Did the birds tell you

In tremulous warning

We will build another sky in kinder hues 

The air as thin and bright as diagrams

Of escaping oscillations

Held against a winding sun

Bury my hand

Time’s mortared skin

In earth as warm as sleep

Whistling hymns to magpies in return 

A knife-hard split

At the corner of my mouth

Opens a sharp, metallic sting

Oxalis grows where you died

As if luck were grown a stranger shape

As if this voice of clay and air

Were another wanting prize

By The Rail Creek I Wait, My Pomegranate Crush

The rumours have you, anger brilliant 
At my peril, I of course misdoubt 

Rain falls like wolves
Chasing lithe bare earth
In gouged ochre
Upraised in spirals

There is a smell of rags and cans
Of death and lightning
As if the carcass, ripe for burning, summoned storms

We cross in the weft, to a greased unconsciousness
Hollow where the water
Flows through mouths like fishes
A jar of reeds to catch
A kind of stillness 

At last you come
Out of a yellow evening
Leeches bright on your skin
Offering in swollen fists
Broken pomegranates

Not for me, not, for me
A cattle stink
The dragonflies drone out
A passing train

i have come to watch you drown, not catch a fish 



You small in the distance

It seems so slight a thing
that you waved and smiled
as if departure were less finale
more seaside pantomime
you a painted backdrop
exeunt all except 
the windscreen glass
obtuse and thick
as a dead cathode tv
the angular distortion
smalling 
in that rough, jabbed elbow way
of laughing sundrowned rivers
bent and glistering 
as the fading edges of a dream
don’t you wish
you were never born
you said
then you could stay, then you could stay
all that blood
and living
costs too much
no deal you can make 
the road dust licking
at tightrope martyred wrists
in devils as the wheels
groan turning on the sand
a sound like the sea, and you
in this dry rememberance
not yet done with drowning

heliconias & a winter sea

we squall

in the intimacy

of suddenly thrown rain

the fricate quieting, our humdrum metronome

where you watch (turned aside) an august ocean

spills in folly, the rampart swallowing seawall

thinking, perambulations, of the fools, deluged

silhouettes a regnant weight

calving waves with palsied lips

pared in the slingshot grin

between teeth girt, a swollen silence

past the nodding arcs

of grandiose reverberations

where you cast them

to the stone

in petulant pantomime

through a wild sea

the heliconias are flying

Rain & Fury

When you deafen
rain becomes
the walls of orchestra
tumbling in that
uncanny way
of bamboo and deforestation
brass and woodwind with
a thousand plectrum eyes
in the octopoid tangle
reaching for prayers with sparred
and upthrust arms
as if
in a lightning season
boats shed unwanted petal skins
bared, swayed sank or mired
but
between the secrets
of an eyelid’s flicker stillness
– an inadvertent claw
a few inviolate tears
never
exactly seeing