Miromiro speaks
he sounds her out

scoutishly—a collector
          Do    you    speak  Tomtit?
an unremembered house

shingled—crisscrossing green

          it could rain and take a year

for the forest

to sup to its roots
from the flat ramble

up whiskey-reeling paths

Miromiro circles
she does not speak

          his darting lingo

she speaks green

catbird, a little curlew

sleepless

          tongues
her blood claims

to know this gully’s oxygen

and quickens to it
homely predators

her feet and pulse
faltering

across streams

clinging to walls

like a gecko

dirt under nails
a bannister of nettles

guides hands

to oil-capped mushrooms

neighbourly dock leaves
stretched below

the clear river

wouldn’t mind

lapping at sinew

cavorting with bones




still Miromiro follows

an omen in her chest

sets minute talons

in throbbing muscle
she is flightless—below

everything is sharp and bright
a final incantation

of undoing




she is alone
but for Miromiro
who watches as she sobs

relief over the nettles
purging a body sunk

with listless crowded terrors
she is finally alone




the forest keeps on

plants arch spines for late sun

and nettles drink a little salt
Miromiro

stops asking questions
but nods and fixes himself

more firmly

slows her blood

to a stream’s unhurried pace
and down through the gully

she remembers