Broken in five verses

                             after Mira Schendel

Her drawings spiral in air –

and he

           heavy with the weight of work

sees them

          as something to touch

                               when night

has erased every interruption

He reaches

            for each sheet

suspended on thread

           reads lines with a reverence

                                he felt then

A sensation comes

          but he resents every single mark

Novena before Singer Sargent

A desire for the tide

makes me feel guilty.

I’m sorry to want more.

No. Not more. To want less.

I’m sorry to desire the north

when everyone wants south,

the heat of a midday sun.

Give me cold damp granite,  

a salmon thrashing on the rocks,

the lure of a long light night,

a foaming river in a hurry,

the struggling fish –

only water its resurrection.

I’m glad to be alone for now

to sit with ahaul of thoughts

to sift and discard the weary.

I need the promise of a boat 

the swirl of a troubled tide.