The Fern Boy

By | 1 August 2015

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
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

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

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