The old lisp

I hear, as if

on a grey day.

 

If all I have is through,

the pool moves.

 

Un-tuck me

 

at the scribble

of feathered wrist;

 

and dribble

at God’s window-pane.

 

Gust is the scrawl

I see as wonder;

 

crippled at the hillside.

 

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History

You exist in the poor length

of my second toe, our lip and Irish eye

that pinks upon the island air.

 

I’m bored cleaning corpse from

empirical floor.  I pack jaws

that don’t speak, at doors to centuries.

 

Sing – give us wars that ring

in your elbow, sting of injury,

and porous nuance.

 

I heard a man tore you once

and told your whanau in desperation.

They stood, and taught him to carve.

 

It matters, in the new-bled day

that pours out of sun or piddles in the rain,

I learned a wing healed upon the plane.

 

8/05/17

 

Note- plane as in planing wood.

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Still-life

Will stay

 

but not fight

embarrassment

in the lewd sun.

 

Bring down infamous rain;

the fingernail and the boot.

 

I will sit here. Tender.

 

But a still-life is a dead thing.

I saw one sit and never breathe again.

 

I paint corpses,

apples and such,

 

and the red ones dance

like they were paid.

 

It’s all in the head.  They are dead.

And roll off the stage.

 

Feb 26

 

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Nervum Tibulum

Diabolical twitch

in the darkness;

singer in the light.

 

I’ve come to

 

winking at the fly,

its odd caress

and back of a turbulent sea;

 

and whistling

over wings

of a wet gnat.

 

At day

I load my beanbag

with the cat

 

and another three yak

 

of what they

kiss and kill

at their backs.

 

At night

I shake the moon

as I fit fit fit

 

and FALL,

like death over lark.

 

2017

 

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In a Church

In the sigh of frescoes

immortal eyes unhinge.

 

It’s you, me and the old

moving air that flees

in tasted gust to the walls

and keels in a pirouette.

 

Intervals are rent for the choir

when all dust is met with the roof

as they sing and they sing

 

or when the old tenor waddles in

combing the stair with a whistle

and cough – fends grub with love

that keeps the stone alive for years.

 

Simple – he comes.

 

And here, now, I sway

on wings I’m too small to know.

Unbent, in the blue-smocked violence,

 

I feather my hands.

 

Dec, 2016

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