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
the golden hollow
the spectre of curiosity looms low
over a wet thing,
a thousand years slow
in this cathedral of moss
quietness that is both the sky
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
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
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
ashy riverbed, pink rocks risen smooth
coal sticks struck like piano strings
crown of grass tree;
it’s blackened petals in the dirt
the yellow prowl of headlights
alighting on a flash of tangerine
eked out like safety,
a crease in the silt births orchid, lily
he is here
The Fern Boy
1 August 2015