Spaces and Dust

A sheen of dust,
thin envelope of air,
and a fear of death
that stops us living,
are things we all share.

I inhabit space
behind a cellar door -
geographically nowhere much.

The door is a curtain of sun-
construction a selection of fragments,
sprung green fern, fragrant degradation.

My mighty arms are combed
with stents and probes,
underlashed by equatorial pipes.

We are between spaces -
height - depth -
left - right -
hemispheres of chance
drenched with light, borders tied
with chants and prayers.

Wonder-bound, our wounds
are mined with wire and sound -
blooms of colour
amid fear and deafness.

Deities of indecision,
how the dust settles
in the loss of momentum,
like flies on a carcass.

The Blossom Bride

In almond silk
she leans into her groom.
Her face lifts to his, rapt
with thatched cottages-
Cinderella wins the Prince.

The bridesmaid studies her bouquet
whilst the groomsman looks elsewhere.

They will eat from crystal
and silver dishes.
She'll be a Mrs, a mother, a lover.

Those prizes she never expected
open like sugar blossom
in her smile.
She is an almond queen,
and takes her throne today,
ever-after circled on her finger.

He's her candy-frosting man,
too sweet to run away.

After Troy

On the necks of wild horses
we spread our wings,
stretched headlong,
wind in our teeth
blades in our fists.

Still the black ships came,
drove their wedged prows
hard upon our shores,
spears lowered
towards the city.

By Greek gifts and fire,
she burned.

Tinderbed

feel fire silk
wash flavours of absinthe
along the path

burning smokey rose
cinders where we roll
and rock
and rock
till light, too light

the torches brush us
white
on white

On the Subject of Ecstasy-

your passion buttons,
beneath my fingers,
run open like
mother-of-pearls
on wedding satin.

The Lily Spurned

I dreamed of you:
dead sheep's head, ruptured skin-
apocalyptic.

From your mouth
verses spill,
all dark,
all torn,
no revelation woven through.

The sky that roiled and burned
has hardened so that cherubim
cannot emerge.

Your sons and daughters
worship you, but I would say
you're not the god
I thought I knew.

The tiger's roar, teeth, and claw,
are butter-myth, soggy
in the summer sun.

The dream is done.
Your ashen wings, mere cinders,
disintegrate upon the tongue.

The Paddock Beyond

Rain has closed around us
like the grey dream bubble
where the voice of my thoughts
meanders inside myself.

The road makes a soft groove
muted gravel roar in accompaniment.

Sheep huddle their woolly dampness
in blobs of cream fuzz and nibble
as though they had never seen
the pen and ramp behind that loads
stock for the freezing works -

as though they will never lunge
and crash after each other
onto the trucks.

We drive beyond ourselves,
to the very edge of our comfort zones,
like the youngest child
who constantly pushes to reach
older brothers and sisters,
never accepting that miles run
cannot overtake years lived.

How much better to rest with the sheep
and nibble greens while the pukeko
struts his blue mussel body
through a neighbour's paddock.

The Looks

Surrounded by men's stares,
I wish they'd put their eyes away.

I love women they say,
and rouse the fire worm.

Looking, always looking, their gaze
begs food I don't want to give.

They take anyway.

I saw two men today
with only one eye apiece.

Though only half the eyes
they had twice the stare,

each single eye
a starving mouth.

Lucky you my mother said
but I want to crawl into a burrow,

pull the mud over my head to cool
the fire worm as he licks his terrible lips.

Fractions

What will you do with your life?

Do you want to be the tiny woman
trapped in the iron spindle
that winds the golden wool of her hair?

Or the woman with a beard
who loves other women
for the pleasure of men.

Do you collect stray children
and read them poems?

Who comes out at night
and sprays messages on the walls -
graffitied pustules of diseased progeny.

Are you aware of yourself as a single entity,
moving in air and light -
do you acknowledge yourself
as an adjunct to the wilderness of ghosts?

What will the night hold
as the moon fades
and Queen of Hearts dissolves.

The great bull snuffles
knee deep in wavelets and bellows Homer,
but Homer is an inarticulate cartoon.

We are a chain of light, glowing beads
spinning on our narrow thread,
dimly aware of our 3/16ths of dimensions.

Outside

a web of branches
finer than any spider could weave
sways raindrops like party lights,
or fireflies, light trapped
in the shining bulbs.

She has trimmed the window
with lilac and lace,
furnished with chestnut timber
glowing like fire coals.

Still the edges of the mirror
are kissed with ice.

Two Chamber Heart

She had a womb
shaped like a heart.
Two chambers
divided against themselves,
conquered
by a fetal echo
but unable to release the child
when full term turned.

A scalpel drew the escape,
hand of man,
flesh of man,
encased in rubber,
cut a path. She thought,

if she had thought
to cover flesh with rubber
in the first place,
she would never have needed.

The Passing of a Mountain

Thick folds of gold brocade
cover the stone altar
like skirts of foothills
around the base of a mountain.

A cloth of white overlays,
opened fold by fold. Choirboys
amass later in the day, frocked
in snowy surplice, their voices soar

like eagles above iced peaks
to fill ceiling vaults carved
by hands that shaped wood and stone
to worship the cathedral of nature.

Queen and God and everyone
have gathered to remember Sir Ed.,
But he has returned to the top of the world
riding his updraft through the thin air.

49er

Time is a factor:
winter comes, silky
with the speed of dark.

Teeth grow muddy with age
as hinges of limbs rust
and grind glassy edges.

Oriental flowers bloom
from the walls,
despite frost blades
spiking the lawn.

The slight arc of winter sun
makes its 49th zenith
in my birthday sky,

and I
am feathered,
glistening,
in my nest.