Night Poem XXV

The night calls out,
death is death is death.
A crow beats its wings,
and night parts from night.
Absence, dawn,
she slips in like a lover,
remembered and forgotten.
I remember life,
and death is death is death.
I accept the beating of rugs in the morning,
the cries of women to each other,
the importance of trans-continental trade,
of men who whistle when they’re sad.
Life is death is life.
I am life,
I am a war of life
that the night could not eradicate just yet,
a music of ruined and resurrected love.
I declare myself an open city,
and the dawn slips in like a lover,
a liberator.
I pour her a cup of coffee.

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Bouquet

There was love in the room,
full, opening to the bending rafters.
She was a bouquet that
spilled across the bed,
while a basket of fruit
exploded in my face.
There was laughter in the room,
it echoed like a cathedral
of white love spasms,
when the sky knelt in prayer,
and the world obeyed the moss.
Laughter in the blood,
swinging from body to body,
two bodies scooped into
the sun’s morning paws.
There was love in the room.
There were bouquets
of exploded hearts.

Quiet Morning, Lake Pukaki

Quiet morning, Lake Pukaki,
the grey dawn sky
coldly faces the blue night
still pacing in the glacial depths.
A single thumb of land
holds the edge
where the immensities
would leak into each other
and cease feeling.
These three belong
from transition to transition,
and there is no language
where the still wet ink
of the sky and the lake
and the uncertain cliffs
finally breach the feeble lines,
run into eddies of confused silence,
before the day comes dividing,
restoring.