I reach vague hands of sympathy,
a ghost upon this common earth.
Of one million sighs: what a place for love, or
to be loved, hot enough to melt lead, here is
the crushing atmosphere of carbon dioxide –
an existential fog, thickened always with desire:
a tang or sting of overcast vitriol, diffusing sunlight
as days revolve and resolve themselves back-
wards, when naked hindsight dissolves a sky-god’s
optimistic assumptions. For instance, finding his
fearful candour behind fantasies, which wish upon
an evening and morning star: the projections across
a broken mattress of players in stifling consciousness.
Intimacy is sleeping with my books, I quote it often,
sage words quickly lost in the suffocating clouds.
I venerate the heart I disinter from volcanic plains, where
feckless devotions beat arrhythmia. Unconscious pieties
sculpt her hand – yesterday’s futures live within the touch,
bright grains of fallen dust crumble away: my skin’s burnt again.
Numbness is fatal. Distances dream measurements in breaths.
Lost, I must let go of the flesh. Soon, I’ll return to the horizon.
I look forward to where I landed. There, I hope to take flight.
FULL MOON AT SANDON POINT, BULLI
a dim gleam whisper-sketches
the capital north, the coastline
crescenting back as a lunar
appetite raises its light on waving water
a stream of lust moistens
intelligence with instinctive silence –
its manic measure of the month
borne within a recondite glow
feeding a private laughter,
insouciant, yet distinctly clear
music in its mercurial resolution,
cutting to pale perceived pretenders
onto itself ‘falls the shadow’
between storms and tranquillity
the tidal thrall rushes with perspective:
cleverness, doubts, points on a compass.