By | 1 July 2009

My foot on the wood
and the heat surging through it
seems a bourgeois grandeur
here in the public sauna.

A long way from the hot
bitumen of home.
I am no exile, though
I doubt I belong here

in this, or most poems.
But to be a conduit of beauty,
to be somewhere
between dirt and bird,

song surging through you –
that is a pretty wish.
Even a silent song
playing in one's veins, some-

thing approaching the throb within
Beethoven, would be okay.
The sharpening of a sense
with the perishing of another.

The salt rising to the surface
of the body reminds it
of the short distance
it has crawled from the ocean,

ancient secrets embedded
in the flesh. The body
has endured a short lesson
in how to be here.

But it changed our shapes.
It changed our song.
We did a few drawings.

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