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.