New Psalm 9

Tuesday, 19 August 2014

The black hands of the Lord
	pressed to the ground
The black ear  
	upon the earth
The black lips
The black belly 
The black body
	uncomposed

The Lord
	covered in crows
	pig-truffled
The Lord
	honey for flies
	a locusts' feast	
The Lord
	a black harbor
	a tomb opened
	in smoke

And 
canisters of 
bone and 
blood - munitions
on the evening news

There
on the ground
behind the cameras

The almond-palmed hands
still filled with clay

Neuroma

Monday, 11 August 2014

Where
there were words, once.
each right syllable grown
into a song heap, now just
a lighter square on concrete
where, flood-soaked, the jeweled ink 
ran that day

   an amputated decade

the mind assumes
all is still there
where you left it
no vacancy, no
absence, just
muscle memory from
an implacable cortex

   do not permit
   broken parts to forget
   wholeness.

Looking for familiar symbols
in invisible ink. Writing
again with the off hand.

Yes, even now
my heart still 
skips like adrenaline stones 
each time I'm thrown across 
her wake
each unanswered chip of water
asking
where 
it all went.