1887
6.60
1.iii.25
a sky of dressed
stone
and moonless
one day added to the list
all rise
now in session
leaf twirl
bright about
landings and takings off
in which woods
someone wants to bite me
who wouldn’t?
then are words of a grief remembered
continuing on just as
somebody’s heavens these are
(as at the top of the page)
bearing the weight of all this air
tiny tiny tiny
and nowhere
run on a spinning ball
smell of an oily rag
1886
6.59
28.ii.25
a singalong clock
with the bouncing ball
for the
clock series
the diary pages bigger than the day
and set out in there to be lost
a whole beach through the funnel of mind
and more than the stars
this something inside, won’t say
laid out end to end
here to eternity as if
but we’ll just pretend
the tiny writing
that’s us too
here’s Atlas turning (big groan)
and that fellow
chin in the sinking drink
up for gone grapes
like a roll back stone
spin, measure and trim
the triple pace day
all accusation
what you can’t read must be true
there’s a great eye as well
face off
deep down
in remembered sleep
angelic in
months of the day in a moment
hours lost count in there
the day shrinks down
where we’re gone
we’re shaking the day till it comes
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1885
6.58
27.ii.25
Cordelia’s song
concert
piece for John Cage’s 4’33”
shut out one day
shut them all
imagine just inside your head
there’s no such thing as silence
face all emotion, as one would expect
a conductor open handed
as if s/he would receive
the effort at nothing in mind
unword it
the writing’s on the wall
imagine a funnel the world falls through
and that’s the proof – imagining!
there is no ever silence
there is depth and the beauty
a hush and through the wall
some far bird breaks the day
you will think that it is the mind’s mechanics
could do this in your sleep
and I do
a tune starts up
here where we’ve never met before
one shuffles
this love’s already proven
no need to show it off
it’s only the world turning we hear
it’s just this old hat for a head
here’s the answer to a prayer
an orchestra’s required
1884
6.57
26.ii.25
precipitous
in the way of
falling
at
Ellenborough Falls
adventure
of the sublime
we are where we are
at the gathering place
a fan as if cloud for a crown
tall, pale, bare
leaf tips touch the blue
the red cedar
the Illawarra flame
all stolen, inscribed
now scratched in a timber railing
it’s with the hollows of a day just this
seat leafed
bridge rotting in
old steps carved into clay
anthill is my height
moss and ochre, noble cairn
the moss worn back
the hornwort mat
and the sky is a sea as well
sun for its joy
on shining
mossed roots
damp gathering
creek tangles through
the tall thyme long legged
its company of insect
reveal of scale
o mighty, let them stand
and in the way of falling
like a wave to the shore
what stone over?
some will live in the tree
think nothing of day’s parts
here’s the brushbox rise
and the tallowwood
this is nobody’s floor
nobody’s wall
deck, palette
the spring, its gentle
when whoa!
and over we go
millions of years!
all who are about to die
head conch all the way
and look
the giants are straight up
night to each when unsun
they will be caught falling too
each in the arms of the all
it sounds like an ocean from here
sounds like a far shore arrived
this is the
place where all fall down
the names
that were are gone
