This is yours to understand: the quiet night
building in your head as you drop from sight
into the grassy bowl between coast road
and the raised hives of sand
twisting over marram. A hushed snickering
runs its fingers through your brain
as you stare out over the crushing white foam,
an exile coming to terms with the gloam
that catches you off guard, illuminating the fact
that there’s a razor hidden in your pocket,
how easily it could be used to ward away
the ghost of selfhood – somehow say
everything you ever wanted to without
a word to anyone you ever cared about.
after Robin Robertson
Rain nailing its speed
to the roof. The air hissing,
pressed against the glass
the way a man might
consume his own reflection.
Every few seconds
a silver rod gleaming
like a fish being speared
in the current. Loud static
in the skies, electricity
in the dark. Old ghosts
prising open cracks of fire,
breaking the fourth wall.
The world is a bowl
of warring weather.
Almost touchable, a tongue
of lightning forks its root
from the burning mire.
Dogs run like demons
across flooding fields
where shards of light
flash quick as pain.