1
the light that sits on the water
the sky belonging to these lungs
these connect the dark
the finger pointing
has itself to say
this touching for far
all one of a kind
seen in the said
a bell
which days will chime
a bowl to pass
ring hill tumbled
timbered in cast off rays
slant hours
in bed imagined
the cartwheel comes to its rest
that’s us asleep
so blessed
2
possums climb down
from the stars
through these branches
steps further
made of not a thing
get roots deep with
secret dark down
something will be lost with me
that’s the sacred thing
like leaves of late summer prepared to fall
or a child absconding
a cloud come clean
the foreignness of every language
gets the tongue
around
sun say
or moon come round
its several ways
and always facing us
homes of objects so delicate
they show the gentleness required
to which we all are strangers