215
it cannot
be
the ache is
us
when we are
stretch of
limb
as green to
air
a tendril up
to the end
as pages turn
so sky
succeeds
a one before
the sky's
just up
the thing's
itself
it cannot be
white beard
heaven boy
still rules
roost
or Mr Trident
in the tub
squeeze ducky
that nonsense
sun
gold glitter
–
Aten?
we keep Thor
in the
freezer
fresh as in
his day
the world's
no longer wide
we're not so
young
a rocket's
gone off
something
comes out of my head
no describing
it cannot be
the thing is lost
when we're
yet to find it
we're till
time began
it's in the
bones
and messy
edges
to call soul
it cannot be
we
in the
objective case
but I think I
got
away with it
not just this
world
I am for
though we may
imagine it
there cannot
be another
all these
loves
we leave for
sense
a tree makes
Christmas
or there's a
star
follows us
home
the pillow is
surely
secret to
dreams
no matter how
hard
they fall
by ironbark, a tendril takes
Oh Kit, now that is the what of the what.
ReplyDeleteI love it!
ReplyDeleteEspecially-
it's in the bones and messy edges:-)
a hopeful poem, nevertheless, thank you.
ReplyDeleteSo tender and beautiful and true.
ReplyDeletethe thing itself!
ReplyDelete