northern wanders early autumn

flowing— plonking, lumpily
through my fingers, dawn-cold sand,
a mauve colour, at the grey beach,
by the play equipment, where I’d slept,
deeply & sedately, underneath
the electron microscope.
a ‘star’ is doubtless countless
many things more than language
-polished lenses can ever clarify,
these floating stellar focusing devices,
so many things whilom bankers, priests,
plumbers and magicians…the crystalline,
multi-coloured sand, inspected
individually, in the light from street lamps
that like a sprinkler system
spray agitated photons
over the cool lean Dawn,
named though wholly arbitrary,
is as varied as we are: raindrops,
leaves, people, dust from cosmic legacy—
the Ngaio trees have had explosive growth.
I think their roots must have secured a pipe
of running water, and have fed
upon our faeces, like flowers and boutiquey
truffles. normally I’d claim the same
omissions as the roots, and rootball system,
of societal dispositions, as a personality exists
on both sides of the words used, and language
will close discussions, anchor for mooring
opinion, and so on, but now I think,
as the mountain ranges pink
with snow, all words are pointers,
misdirects, I look away, towards a door
slammed. the sun, twenty minutes
from entry; and waiting, as her monologue
closes, graveyard radio host, the Moon,
about to exit, will not briefly book-end,
with Sol, My dawn, and I will stand between
two states, two distances, a man
amongst seagulls alerted by the croissants
carefully heated on an orange-violet flame
from a small gas cooker. magnificent
silence of wave roll, heart-quiet, a circle
observantly. suburban windows. tight,
clear, lamp-lit; erogeny ready, I can feel it
pulsing, I will own this, and command
the caffeinated state, for a lean poetic
pornography. early? or late? is she
going home, or into the big toilet
to cry? I decide she is peeing on a stick
to determine a decision on her mate,
and I close the bag, too weighty at first,
but now half the size it was, the didge
airlifted home, books abandoned unread,
Mac, put to sleep in a box with breathing holes,
& sent behind the instrument—the lightness in my step!

Leave a Reply