Even from four weeks,
you are all contemplation,
a tiny brow heavy
with patience.
Your grandfather sh
your expression often.
Even before his own children
were grown, he would sit,
think of you,
and wait.
Remember Malcolm,
first born
of
first born
of
first born:
circumstances formed things
until he could not wait any
longer, but between
your other stalwart names
your grandfather still sits.
Think of him waiting
and be patient.
(for Malcolm Fraser Abraham)
With sideways ice
now stinging at flesh;
vegetarian fuel just
as tasty as breath;
little beer, though
surely enough for
we blood brothers,
each harbouring death.
April 2018
The bases of my feet
tingle
as your tongue
swirls inside me.
How do you do that,
speaking
from across
the room?
Coming into life
without permission
or warning
must have
seemed like
his mistake.
Going out
with bruises
and broken bones
must have made
sense to
someone.
The bleeding
brave the cold
in search of carrion.
Their wounds are
mouths of pain,
with no time
for healing,
for silence.
Finding the silent dead
to feed on,
gratitude is no longer
necessary, but
the electricity of the
blood continues moving
towards
meeting
time.
It isn’t difficult to
meet time:
over electric blood,
truth is ability
breathing the
patient solitude
of dreams.
O, New York poet,
where did you find
your dusted birds
and tree of death?
Christmas is coming
and I’m going to Boston.
I know it isn’t Vienna,
but can I get them there too?
And can I get them
without paying duty?
Or will I just find you:
Alive in
an orange cover
and pebbled photograph.
A conviction
(to freedom)
is
a contradiction
(in terms).
Given the affliction,
the proper treatment
would seem
to be either
feigned ignorance or
genuine sympathy.
But the former
being escapist,
and the latter
being elitist,
the dis-ease proliferated
on a smirk and a sneer.
A bird between
the Lord and I,
Ponderous and muscled,
between us,
boding goodness.
No bird between
the Lord and I,
neck broken,
only a picker
with sharpened blade.
No sharpness to
the blade, blunted
by my desires,
Life in
the writhing.
No writhing to
my existence,
wrought by my
own permission,
there is penance and
understanding for
all but me.
Wherever he is,
he finds the sun.
A caress
from his flank,
urges my settled desk
aside,
reclining with
yearning pads,
his greying thorax flecked
with glossy warmth.
