it is the centre of a word
that is unimaginable, almost
as it flutters out with the birds
indifferent over the lake
as closed in the eye
or as far as the mountain
brittle as a principle or a crust
in the hand
it is raised up but not grasping
the sides of the hours
it is suspended, it is surface
as though carried by water
or wind moves the parts of language
less calculable than the tides
not boxed or protected
once they leave the soft throat
the twist of autumn trees
lets down the light, trust
in the chill, naked and right
that winter will always be spoken
if it is tender as thinking inside today
and surrounding form – klee klee
little curlew will sing elsewhere than memory
raising sky with soundings/silences
but it is a kind of peace time
and also a form of force that emerges
such as words that rhyme
or shuffle softly near the tree
a head operates in its clay
and thinks about the wings
it cannot elevate to understanding
here against the fickle light
to be based on what is left
as though still unwritten
a statement that suddenly swerves
it has moved beyond confidence
and shed that blunt examination
even though birds pick over the ground
that is written
from Broken/Open (Salt Publishing, 2005)
Things to make and do
Waver on stilts while listening to arias.
Sew your own rose and ask of its questions.
Steal flotsam like wanton flies.
Ruin lyrics, while above the egrets lift.
Paste green language around a cork room.
Refuse to ‘nail it’. Just refuse.
Keep rearranging what is footnote and what is space.
Walk out one day in presences.
Release the necessary angels from their curators.
Make friends with adverbs, unwisely.
Take night’s immediate nerve with possibility.
Speculate outside with the big southerly.
Pass as you go into.
Sleep all around at blue windows.
Burn down the villa, change all the doors.
Stand so shadows make you perfect.
Love your dumb corpus, of song.