Poems

Wet

Moisture gets in everything:
the bricks
nearest the ground
store it up,
thirsty shapes,
like the chalk that drinks
blue dye
to make
a scientist’s point.

The garage wall glares at me,
property
that continues
to do its work,
for now,
even as it
courts
its dissolution.

The books curl upstairs,
the rugs
heavy as moss:
the house
responding
to this atmosphere
that makes the paint clam
and
threads new falls
through the bush.

The roof keeps off
only
the part that drops;
not the fog
that floats in,
a slumming cloud,
the air
that with humid fingers
touches
everything
like a child.

The laundry basket,
susceptible
wicker,
falls apart
at one touch.

Glacier

Glacier

His death approached,
a glacier,
advancing
massive, imperceptible,
scouring the rock
to brake,
an insufficient grip.

The trick
was that the changes
seemed to
happen all at once;
we’d wake
and find his crown of ice
had slipped metres
to the ocean,
the place where he would break.

The lie of his size
made him
seem invulnerable,
but he was only
part of the herd
pressing whitely on,
the course
as inexorable
as any
killing floor.

I float
some distance out
and watch him melt,
in this sea
that is warm to him,
cold to me.

He was never any landmark,
and I try not to blame him
as he ceases to be.

He wanted this,
ruminating darkly
on how little he would come to,
closing
around
his progress
like a fist.