from Maquettes for a Season of Fury

Dead Women in Old Stories

Above the hills a starry slate       the lights

on the coast                       a necklace weight

              of faded-flower


moonlight suspends      the tides

the lap

& undertow abrading    salty folds

a sea bird’s skull             shells    silvered wood

underfoot           the stuff of frail

              philosophies       here is the heart love seared          


              in the haze before the hills             & spears

of cypress          dividing

              moonlight from the dark

how else to        assimilate            the amethyst fires

the women                        dancing in the groves

                              their cries

above the harbour           a deeper





Dispersal Patterns of Blood in Water

Lake       in late light         still surface
kimono                 settled shore-folds
yesterday              etherised              today
every dream        & then

                this deeper sleep
cured where        threads of blood
aimless endings

                scar shadow
                corpuscles unravelled
fed red                  
along the vein’s path

suicide                                 in Switzerland’s

a lifestyle choice                                 like smiley

bleached veneers                              

across the Alps                   rich soil

of dreams                             deep enough

for graves
for me   this lake                still centre

                boat oars knock 


clouds racing             repeated               across the lake face          
                                                       the blade’s weight
marking deep water                                               


red on black




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Staked staves

              circle huts            roofs

grass tiered

the women walk              bush walk            dust walk

dead heat kilometres

                              newborns buried first day

south Sudan three hundred midwives

              population five million

a girl sitting in red dirt shade                      miscarried

              this morning

                                              rises slowly

to tend her herd

              clean water          half a day’s walk

who grinds the grain

the hollow stones

                                              chaff in the wind