– 179 –

Time alone

A typhoon in the veneer on my side of this
functional piece, three empty drawers
and fluting. Hand-me-down aesthetics.

A silverfish satellites his way
over the storm, such
an intimacy we have
at this point, footnotes
in the fine print, means
that I've been getting up close to it
and closer still as I dovetail my two leading toes
around my other foot.

All the jobs I've done in
North Shore backyards, peering
carefully into back windows,
pulling teeth from garden beds
and hosing down pertinent cats
to get by as I disliked my employers internally,
or their wealth, checked my watch again
and turned the earth over.

I had the most amazing sleep on the deck
this afternoon, I woke and it was like
I had never seen television.
I woke with a mind stuck in my ribs, hips
and envelopes. My two front arms
took longer, they were still crossed underneath
where I'd lain my head. They stayed oblivious for so long
that I thought I'd lost them for good
and I was filled with envy.

– 180 –

What words do

The breeze is right onto
my underlip as I try to souvenir
a piece of these concrete steps
for myself, toes curling over
like primate good morning.

Culvert plaits the sea nicely
and returns it to itself.
The waves fetch up some rhythm and froth
in their slop, sincerely
against the quarter-pipe.

I dreamed a mistake up
which the sky could not censor.
I cut the headland into the shape
of a vicious torpedo, and squared up
the peninsula where settlements lie

like settled mints. Piles of litter
blew into the harbour, the white of boats.
I looked down the borough council's
thoughtful handrail with
my one good eye and saw

a guide rope to suicide,
but only at high tide.
I set my cheek to the sun.
The bush is cheeky too; we
strip off together.

There's a person missing
in every shadow.