We are saying nothing


 written in a stolen pen 

                            by my own hand kept
                            shake-free by the things i     wandered-through-the-smoke-for, ray bradbury in hand


i, thirsty, frank, realise why
the smoke that morning meant so little, how i ignored it darkening the brown of the imported Harakeke--
Tapered on the curb like that. trampled, written about, smiling. The plant reminded me of something i saw in a notebook somewhere.
i grimace at night now


        The sad:

- The tan hard face of a juggler, tongue gone limp when he voids his ice cream to the footpath, my dad cries

- The woman eating a bowl of sand

        The image:

Your face. I think of your face-- my own i am consciously unaware of,

yes. my face is unattainable without a mirror

- I, i could kill for a durry

- ‘Candescent thighs’--my shivering spine


        and the dead:

- That ‘prefect’s’ shoes on grass, grass on linoleum, off, on, off. No, no, no Novi Sad.

Each new day begins a new flurry
In list form they bleed.

I hear them, you know, the images

I think of two-days-ago images,