There’s a poem in this, I’m certain,
the memory came while reading
parted into the hearts of other poets:
a summer evening
sea swim alone below the flower tree
of antipodean Christmas’.
I’d kicked it . all . drugs and mothers, but
the sugar; I’d quit my full-time work
making either bread or circuit boards
or ice cream, and had opted out
of the woman’s vehicle
to walk it home instead.
I’m building a stronger sole, I said
using the splintered ice cream stick
to pick my teeth.
I’d been going barefoot everywhere
on everything, everyday.
I hadn’t talked awhile, or walked
for long the red Sumner cliffs
and then-standing township
when I saw the tide risen to a level
I didn’t know achievable.
I didn’t know myself entirely, either,
and daily seemed to fluctuate
between the two amygdala.
I was coming right, tho’, I’d jumped
from a moving vehicle, rolled
to a running trot, and while having
to the gutsong solo & the sole,
having cleared my private aerial
what I then picked up —ethereal
offering-sorts, terrestrial Focus groups…
I’m not the kind sitting up the front
taking notes, never did my homework
properly either, but… what I got back
didn’t put anything in place
of myself— where ever I turned
I was facing the front.
so there it was, the simple sand
-coloured sea, right up to the path
below the trees, and I stripped off
to my cut short polypropylenes
red and green, and let it hang in water,
peak tide meeting up the estuary,
a river curve, a rip beside, shallow water
beach wide, weird respite from feeling
all the gravity involved magnetically
to holding solar systems apart
floating loose in public near the footpath.