index

Moving in reverent waves

when the light dusts the tree-tops
    with elegant fingers
must there be a reason?
may not the mad world stand all on its own
and stamp, and froth at the mouth?

Old growth, and new

There is a grey gum near my house that stands alone in
a bamboo-forest of new development, fending off each
day strange and foreign shoots, green shoots, that rocket
from the earth propelled by nutrients unknown.

This tree – it bifurcates, and bifurcates again, and
Oh! Isn’t it lovely to wear a crown, for the parrots
who build their lives there, look down, and laugh in
shades of irascible hue?

Sluice

soul-sick, vibrating
unsure and unstable, i have torn off
my skin, churned it to offal
it rots in the bay
the seagulls pick at it and cry
greedily for more

the act of creation
the act of destruction
are not so different in the end, save for
a feeling of emptiness, a tree-hollow
to sleep in and dream of birds

The thinking animal

revived each day they throw
themselves across the path on
cheese-wire strings, drawn taut
by mysterious compulsion.

  painting dew-drop trails
thinking cheery, diffuse thoughts.
  body-thoughts.

to claim a small piece of this earth

the wagtail wags its warning dance
puffs out its downy chest and sings
forth a song of bluster

a patch of buffalo grass
scattered and spotty, sun-burned
dead or dying or both,
he stakes the corners with his cries

the wind waits out his waning breath
with patience marked in centuries,
it wraps those meek alarm-chirps
in murmuring linen
and cradles them as they die

to each of us our own designs,
that to others sum to nothing.