You’ll be the first who leaves this bed in a cradled rain you’ll be the centre, your actions will split the numbers you’ll turn heads in London and Berlin you’ll move with everything, since everything is what you’ll be and there’ll be no use for alibis, or poets who cannot button their shirts.
There’s an emptiness between the lines you’ll notice: an infinite space of no consolation —nothing we write is heavy enough to keep them near each stumbled phrase they’re further gone and we can only hang so long on a pause that won’t stop the expanding heavens.
after Arthur Rimbaud It doesn’t mean a thing: the pyramid eye or the constellations, not night’s scattered verse. Smoking incense, the bride’s dress, the taste of dark wine— it doesn’t mean a thing. Neither does beautiful Paris: the elegant avenues, the asphyxiating decay, the distant nausea. Only your soft pure face and the warm bed of home.
Better now we’re back from the war this room looks the same as before no one after us we’ve got all the time right here next to you so near can’t believe that now it’s clear what was has left all gone.
You’ll always be over there, my feet only oceans away my head can be anywhere— too much to ask you to stay? * We’ll always be good at talking it round but if I could I’d bring you down from on top the Ferris Wheel.
Away from voices on shore, we row into the limitless fog. Our bodies rock together: shoulders, thighs, touching —which is all we want to feel, flooding our heads. The tumid night blankets the water like an oil slick.
I won’t say I understand you, but I’ll try somehow to find you. Like you I’ve wasted time and I’ll contemplate some more. Because it’s never quite right, we don’t finish anything as much as the times we begin. You’re as hard as the wind.
Moana! It’s me…
I’ve run from Hine-nui-te-pō
to hear the waves break in the twilight morning
and see once more the waka pulled up high
on the beach, their tauihu standing
like warriors, proud amongst the gulls
and scuttling crabs.
I dig in the sand,
two lengths from the great pohutukawa,
until my lonely hands touch what we buried:
the waka huia I carved
with our bodies entwined on every side,
mouths open, tongues hungry.
The edges of the box
have softened over time, but the embers
we placed inside still glow, which we can use
to light again a fire in the dunes
that will burn like the one Ranginui
and Papatūānuku lit in the beginning.
your summer dress I remember:
orange, green, a touch of turquoise
how it clashed so madly
with the dull buildings
dulled by a sky-full
of grey clouds
and your smile—dashed off
as you ran past in the light rain
bright as the sound
on a smooth wet road.
I hold no hand
A hand is not
There was no hand
it was held
Now, the hand
and no more.
has been turned