before you slip away,
unbidden and unbound
as you are to my world,
or i turn away from yours.
before the air
that condensed to your form
thins falters and returns
and we are no more
to one another
than play of light.
to look upon your face
begins the unraveling
of my world,
but looking away
has brought us to this brink.
ask me creature,
are you the other
that creates my i –
or am i the other
that forms you.

WhatsApp Image 2018-02-26 at 17.49.00.jpeg













visionary habits

WhatsApp Image 2018-02-23 at 17.18.32

it is not like
god could wait
while we
wove cloth
of hope and flax,
a seasons growing
to make the
warp and weft
of prayer.

thirteen ravens
flew the sky,
i don’t remember
why i counted.

there was no predicting
the turning of the wheel
yet i held the lucky number
sticky in church fair hand
waving it wildly
waist high to the crowd
waiting to claim my prize.

i cut the cloth
to fit the bed
that i intend
to lie in.
actually – i ripped it.
measured folded
measured again
small snip, then
not the screech
of ripping cotton
but a soft linen purr.
somewhere in this cloth
blue flowers sighed
and caught the sun.

eight swallows
sun bright
on the wire
speak of counting
the cooling weeks.

i tasted oak
in this morning’s mushroom
picked roadside on my
travels and grilled.
i tasted oak and quiet roots
and the weaving of unseen threads
tying me to the land.
you eat me
and i eat you,
said the tree.

some days
a black dog
long way from dream
walks idly along the road
and i forget to breathe
while the hairs on my arms

more white
than evening has eyes for
the wings of the egret
for a moment after landing
remain open, holding air
while her feet remember
her body is earth.

i saw the city
like a bubble once
dazzling, evening light
reflecting from every glass
and steel surface.
stretched iridescent
around nothing at all,
an illusion of solidity.


late light
cuts deep shadows
through the fat translucence
of vygie leaves,
revealing the sour figs
we knew we would find
opaque with ripeness
and seed.


let these deeds
the walking of this prayer
become habit,
prayer shawl
and rosary.
let it be reminder
on the days
that we forget.

we threw the
bones before
we came here,
cast the stones,
gave of our blood
to hear the voice
of the oracle ,
all of us.
we knew this
would happen,
all of it.
and yet

even through
the dry years
our bodies ache
for the memory
of rain.

now these grasses
go to seed
arced in an
of evening light.

























turning the tide



there was a time
we knew these things,
knew when scrape
of sand and pull
of wave would
meet the wind
to fill the sail
and breach the tide
to taste the salt
that spoke
a hundred tongues.
knew the names
of the wind
by the way it
sang our skin.

our bodies have
not forgotten us
we know the sky
by the earthbound
longing of our bones.
we know the ocean
by the taste of salt
in our blood.

title deed


if the earth were the body of a woman
she would not belong to anyone,
any more than i do.
if the earth were the body of a woman
we would not be her children
anymore than neurons, transmitting
crossing void after void
to deliver the touch of warm earth underfoot,
are my children.
if the earth is the body of a woman,
is she lonely.
if the earth is the body of a woman
and we are not her children
then we know our living and her living
are one and the same.
if the earth was the body of a woman
who had been claimed and bought and sold
and sold and bought
she would still not belong to anyone
anymore than i do.


WhatsApp Image 2018-02-10 at 21.46.40

tangled webs and temporal nonlocality

WhatsApp Image 2018-02-09 at 10.13.59

does it matter, love
who called who into existence first
whether it was the i that created the you
or the you that created the i.
does it matter any more than it matters
that we are here now together, love.

does it matter, love
whether or not we
have already failed,
whether this has happened
or is happening,
whether our world
has already ended,
or not.
does it matter, love
anymore than it matters
that we are here now
to be the world we wanted
or mourn the one we lost.













plum jam


for now the
trees hang full sweet
with summer.
tomorrow or
tomorrow she leaves
as daughters must
and with her
summer too.
today we make plum jam,
filling the house
warm sticky
with the knowing of blossoms.
storing summer sweet
for when autumn quiet
blows cool.


WhatsApp Image 2018-02-07 at 17.19.56 (3)



finally got the sage dog inside,
she had been barking relentless
at the something out there;
cautious, calling for back-up barking.
searching the darkness i stretch my ears
to see what she saw – porcupine, bushpig, caracal?
torchlight in the forest finds nothing but leaf –
drawing the circle closer.

back to bed and warmth and sleep
but my skin is awake now
and thirsty for night.
pushing my window open
i wait for the startled silence
to fade, frog by frog,
until darkness is alive
and beauty is not owned by sight.

i fall asleep like that
consumed by the cool of night
and the thick pulsing voices
of tree.