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Little Pulses
(for Chris)
The slow eclipse
of evening
gives itself over in surrender.
As we walk, the trees have never looked taller
or whiter, or more fragile or so strong.
The kiss of moss, warm and earthy
between lips
entwining the web and wood in us.
Above; spaces,
air pockets for emotions to float between
mouth to mouth rescucitation
mouth to mouth
hand over hand
covering over unspoken gaps.
My words are skimming stones
Listen:
little pulses.
Timor
Twenty one floors
up
voices rise from below
there is a lot of red
sitting on the window ledge
watching the people
snake their way
like an army
around the street
clutching megaphones
colours change
and move
on the screen
people stand with guns
in the street
and are locked.
We are all watching
each other
with our eyes shut.
Artifact
Artifact
art is fact.
Long ago near the Blue Mountains
the man asked of another
“Would you be interested in six baby skeletons
wrapped in bark?”
Six dark baby skeletons
wrapped in bark.
Fully cocooned,
ready to sail upstream
or ready to pupate.
Shifted.
Removed.
The six baby skeletons;
were not to fly, were not to sail.
Bare hands cut fresh diamond universe.
De cased, re cased
behind glass
as a remnant
as an artifact.
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