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.