he is coming

from the bone wish.

Gift, from the once ocean

he surfaces in a glory of bubbles
speaking in silver and iron

forged rust promise     dirt-written maps and

quick cut of desire
he is a fern with luck.

Once, he is frozen in the swell of embrace.
                                                          always and exception fizz,

                                              a childhood chemistry
 a search inside leaves a trail of stars.

the boiling of rock breaking down –

same vision of flesh
he hears secrets. he is a tiny landing spore.

he hears long songs for long walks

beckoning

the golden hollow
the spectre of curiosity looms low

over a wet thing,

                                       unfurling
                                                    *
             a thousand years slow

in this cathedral of moss

quietness that is both the sky

                          and the

                                       bottom of the ocean. 
a caravan at dusk on a blue drive

a sick kiss, the haze settles
in the palm of dunes

a revelation sleeps beside

the blood’s tide

             its cascade 
temperate rainforest

where you fused to damp soil

and spores now nestle	in the night,
he is a doll face

in the artificial black

and the hush of recorded silence makes the pattern of

a new dream
                                                                 *
             he rolls under a wave

sweet marrow and beads of salt in a glass forecast.

the future speaks of littleness – the word itself  fitting in

             the palm of a hand

of fingers enclosing hip bones

mouths making nests
the estuary goes out, reveals a body made of triangles
he is the forever-squaring pattern

of diffusing light

through mountain ash
Old bodies to the earth,

a spray of midnight blue fungi             chattering in decay

he pauses in a bed of broken shell.

pieces of tounge scatter the stage
a self-conscious light descends

                          a veil of protein called

destiny
made of numbers and lines that intersect

cleaving great magma from below 
he perceives through eyelids             an arrow

perfect pink translucence of capillaries shot.
                                                                 *
             swansong of the kelp forest,

he looks up and sees an entire world of sunlight

                           anchored, taken out to cooler waters,

             suspended in the amnion of the deep.
exquisite wrinkled fruit of the setting day,

fine gold dust to protect him 
he is purpling,             horizon bruised and churning

he tilts doll eyes open

and breathes a tiny carousel

nose tip to nose tip, in the morning.
sheds a second skin

to the orange glow of cityscape; lightning rods

             and bird silhouettes 
                                                                 *
             scumming over –             a sundial

carved into the flesh of his hand
             he is singing to

a floating anatomy             its dark rot

and wraps a trusting arm
words fall like the swimming of his laughter

he rests
                                                                 *
             ashy riverbed,             pink rocks risen smooth
coal sticks struck like piano strings

No music.

crown of grass tree;

             it’s blackened petals in the dirt 
the yellow prowl of headlights

alighting on a flash of tangerine

             tucked             away
                                                                 *
             eked out like safety,

a crease in the silt births orchid, lily

and fern.
                          he is here