Poems

  • 22 December 2003

    I would remember the rush, a day and a night later,
    crouching, sliding away from screams. At four a.m.
    with an unexpected town, black water crashing
    in up the shore,

    Canting dark hum still rolling from my ears.

  • 22 November 2003

    he pecks around the others’ feet;
    the neck is bulging, dark green sheet
    as fitting snow to dirt do meet;
    he is stranger than them all.

  • 22 August 2003

    this night feels like a summer night:
    not like the tick, tick, tick,
    of that which you cannot watch
    and so no longer takes place.