was a bump in the day.
I walked fifty miles of aimless, looking
in each pavement crack for the faces of angels,
turned blind corners with eyes wide open,
sat quietly at out-of-service bus stops,
for an event I didn't wish to attend,
nor could remember the invitation for.
Noon spun on a dry axis,
each second needing the grease of
a troubled thought and an injured sigh,
and the leaves dived without noise, just as expected,
from the maples along the street
and the eucalypts upon the mountain.

Far off in me, somebody cried your name:
it was your name flying from a mouth
as names are prone to do; it
was soft as butter- one could spread it from the air.
It was cried as a magnolia blossom cries hallelujah, or -
a sound held in an envelope from a long-lost lover -
to be opened in perfect silence;
to be torn perfectly open.
From where does it come?
That is the work, the work that I surrender to
in the underbelly of each day,
to turn those stones, to seek
that perfect vein of language
which you bleed from.

I was a bump in the day,
a split seam in the universe.
I walked fifty miles of aimless, past
the same trees, the same houses,
the churches with their doors shut,
the shooting galleries with their junkies
and their bottle queens,
avoiding mirrors, avoiding reflections,
avoiding myself, avoiding the wolf of your name,
walking harder, walking faster,
trying to sweat you from my body:
for I have heard a rumour
that I may still love you,
and am torn perfectly open. 

t sticks to your insides, this endless tramp
of the daily, damp commute. This war against the clock
and how each monstrous hour falls and falls
and chimes a bleak reminder.
The calendar, it hurtles slickly by - you swallow
knowledge like you fight a rising gorge -
those displaced days that made up all your youth
lie littered in your wake:
the carrion for history's avid vultures.
And yet, you grow accustomed to the loss -
and grinding down the journey of each day
into a powdered debt - resolve to pay yourself
at Destination.

Wherever that may be.

As you wait within the station, a blind boy
stands on a corner, singing, of green
fields that he has never seen:
your tired ears cannot escape the sound.
The stifling day snaps shut.
Nearby, shoeshine boys dream of warm girls
with stunning eyes and sturdy legs; a gaunt
secretary smokes, remembering deserted beaches,
strong arms, and a keen libido.
A homeless man takes off exhausted shoes
and ambles wistfully towards the lush town green,
all because a blind boy sings.

A blind boy is singing of green fields, and heat
peels off the asphalt with oppressing force,
the buildings are eye-bleeding monoliths,
and though these concrete miles they punish the aesthetic,
you know the men who built them, long since gone,
had Titan's wills and laboured with glistening bodies.
They were alive even here.
Even as you are alive.
Even here, the dandelion hopes its silent way
through the pavement crack: the bee attends.

The friction of the countless tight agendas rubs
against the herding crowd -
the strait-jackets of schedules and gratified needs.
Ambitions fight like cornered demons in the busy station:
the meetings; the meetings; the meetings -
all for some important scheme, are waiting.
You step outside that cage -
and because a blind boy is singing
you remember that
how to feel beautiful
is simply
to be where you are.

A blind boy is singing of green fields,
and the feeling you've been waiting for arrives
without appointment or timetable
or the crude affliction of an expectation,
and you board it -
this beauty that exists beyond your vision,
this penetrating love you feel that fills
your heart; the street; the city;
and expands to fill the world. 

ou are The One:
let me tell you about the reason for being made.
These eyes given to me, these things I look upon
in the focus that remains
within the textures of imperfect light -
there is only your action:
all else peels from view.

How you love with the absence
of dialogue; how the geometry of your arms
and the exquisite angles of your
wordless body seam into my own.
In the presence of morning,
mute as light,
you merge into a flaring lens
through which I view
your heart.

You drop your language into mine,
this thing you do with your
mouth against my own;
I offer my skin, a parchment,
to receive the delicate alphabets
traced with your hands,
this love without tongues:
never secret;
never spoken.