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.
Note- plane as in planing wood.
but not fight
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.
in the darkness;
singer in the light.
I’ve come to
winking at the fly,
its odd caress
and back of a turbulent sea;
of a wet gnat.
I load my beanbag
with the cat
and another three yak
of what they
kiss and kill
at their backs.
I shake the moon
as I fit fit fit
like death over lark.
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.