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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.

Vicky Curtin

Vicky Curtin

I am a poet who paints and draws - originally from Auckland; now living in the Waikato.

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