7.viii.21
583
2.218
three poems
and two that became one
midden living
in dreams the gone know
themselves
we can’t catch up with
them
they know us and we
live
in dreams
like marrow
shells to sand
in the pockets of the
day
I found this coin worn
such that saw myself
there shining
so must have been the
king
dry leaf that was a
forest before
it was a well deep
thing
I dived
so swam
the pockets of the day
toys, teething rings
questions not to answer
with time
dusty, grubby even
won’t know where hands
have been
in pockets
anonymous
I won’t tell
as a voice is never
lost
but wheels the world
round
the hundred billion
still of us
map through the wash
a string of hearts
hold some smoke for when
a list become a plan
later on told for a story
billabong, veranda
the bladder of the ball
in the pockets of the day
keep weather
tricks of light
little mazes and
kaleidoscope
country, seaside
travels for luck
all in this less than a
book
frayed, take that
track, tug, no
crumbs of the collected
world
the breathlessness
thereof
in a pocket find
snake of the day
parts of my lost watch
a song
(at least some lyrics,
chords)
birds to go with
music – a far land
names of the towns
of the people
lost
the city of my father’s
memory
must for instance
persist
on foot
and the old lands fled
kingdoms of storybook
violence
a conch to ear
and deep, so as to pay
…remember the words
and they’re gone
in days of the laundry
hung to dry
(front for those
pockets)
all seasons of the
clock
marbles – alleys and
onionskin
tombowlers – gas giants
other suns
the handkerchief folded
over itself
so all the outside’s in
and carry this little
universe
some say keep a dream
alive
picture and folded
again
I know you’re tuning
into me
I make the static
myself
here’s a kind of
everywhere
sun too glorious not to
be out in
a pocket of the day
in the pockets of the day
I found this coin worn
such that saw myself
there shining
so must have been the
king
dry leaf that was a
forest before
it was a well deep
thing
I dived
so swam
the pockets of the day
toys, teething rings
questions not to answer
with time
dusty, grubby even
won’t know where hands
have been
in pockets
a map through the wash
a string of hearts
hold some smoke for
later
a list become a plan
later on told for a story
billabong, veranda
the bladder of the ball
in the pockets of the day
keep weather
tricks of light
little mazes and
kaleidoscopes
country, seaside
travels for luck
all in this less than a
book
crumbs of the collected
world
the breathlessness
thereof
snake of the day
parts of my lost watch
song
(at least some lyrics,
chords)
and the birds to go
with
music – a far land
names of the towns
of the people
lost
a shell to ear
and deep, so as to pay
in days of the laundry
(a front for those
pockets)
hung to dry
all seasons of the
clock
marbles – alleys and
onionskin
tombowlers – gas giants
other suns
the handkerchief folded
over itself
so all the outside’s in
and carry this little
universe
some say keep a dream
alive
picture and folded
again
…
midden living
in dreams the gone know
themselves
we can’t catch up with
them
they know us and we
live
in dreams
anonymous
I won’t tell
as a voice is never
lost
but wheels the world
round
the hundred billion
still of us
the town of my father’s
memory
must for instance
persist
on foot
and the old lands fled
kingdoms of storybook
violence
remember the words
and they’re gone
I know you’re tuning
into me
I make the static
myself
here’s a kind of
everywhere
sun too glorious not to
be out in
a pocket of the day
woken never to where we were
the city is built every
day
just for me
the bush, the garden
too
this body forth among
and indoors too
it’s not that I want that
shop
but to steer by
I lose my way
so ask
it is another country
I was always there
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