This Weight of Crushing Quietness
This weight of crushing quietness,
I give the morning star.
This night I’ve been amongst trees,
been to the lake,
steaming in its stillness,
stood in meditation upon a silvered bank and
heard the deep-throated
sounds of logging trucks,
the indigestible distraction of a road’s closeness
dimmed by darkness.
In my hands
I see the veins of a city and
sometimes those veins open up and bleed for a sun
which rolls effortlessly, like a ball
across multi-faceted kingdoms
of U-shaped streets.
My hands read like a map and like a map I
snap them shut,
annihilating thoughts, a clairvoyant’s interest
in the translucency of my skin.
At Orere Falls, a girl swings high,
leaning into clouds. A woman
records peace in spaciousness. I feel
painted into a picture. We
practise selective discrimination,
picking the wild flowers only.
At the transference of a suggestion,
my hands begin to open.
Sentinel Poetry (Online) #43 - June 2006. ISSN 1479-425X
The International Journal of Poetry & Graphics...since 2002. Editor: Amatoritsero Ede