Suddenly we sweep out, after death,
felled from Madonna’s sweet hibernation,
we find the old country of wild places,
where the many colours of sunshine warm
and loosen rust-choked inhibitors until,
uninhibited by the mongrel ghosts,
we swim deeply in astral oceans.
Aurora of the sea, I sing unto thee a song
of myself and by thyself am likened,
lichen-swarmed like the mangy death
of trees, of the seize, movement thwarted
continually by tinnitus, or Titus,
at least there are free beasts out here
in the creased suburban stillness.
Oh I hear many things, and of all things
am untethered, by fire’s footsteps I weep,
while all trees bleed under brackish water,
high above us all. We’ve mistaken the
sonorous silent music for the voices
of gods, or the written word become
poetry, like lightning, spread the ink
upon tarnished pages of woe.
We shall gaze not, and hear not,
of their falsely uttered whisper
through shattered secret teeth.
