Auckland, New Zealand
Moments in which she pierces the outer
drab & pull of days,
unclothing like a rose
to the unborn scent-locked promises
of the next moment & tomorrow
but HERE and NOW she stands
perpetually lined of dust & colour
& the hole in which she wriggles
in the world
& HERE is YOU,
thick-lipped sepia painting
with a NOSE and EYES
of charcoal, suddenly HERE & NOW
she does not know what you are,
but she sees you are real.
& then she fills a cup and
palms a coin
& goes back to her book.
Fitted to the strangeness of
shadow continual light
& opaque reasons, all she sees
are moments of bits driving
in a timeless swing
She runs two fictions within which
she is real & unreal,
one already distilled into lines,
the other running circles around her.
the circles are TIME SPACE WORK FAMILY BOOKS
SELF CONSTRUCTS WORDS CAUSALITY
& WALT WHITMAN,
being a practical romantic.
Of course she has her loves & themes,
some rutted deep.
Mired in these, in circles of concepts & stilled constructs,
she (outside) lives & goes on