On Gathering

the hand, wrinkled, finds
another in the blue,
as crisp brown noise
showers above, below,
yes, we’ve been gathered by
the hold of the wave,

the hands do find each other,
eventually,
hold each other with
generous force, lest
the current’s pull triumphs,

off the reef
in the deep end
under, the
underbelly,
brushing by the waist
of the atoll

we gaze up with
some violent desire
for the surface
we kick, kick
until we realise how
the sharp splints of sun
do really come from a
place.

i like to think that some elemental
sprite had reached for my

On Gathering

lone body that took for nowhere
because
my hand turned out to be the only hand
when it broke into air,
waving, wet with sea,
for something that floated.

now my palm holds the steady, timber
pelvis of the ship.
it reminds me of constance.
charcoal waves wave the deck
ceaselessly
the ship treads through
morning mist and
dew, and spray, i

watch dawn loom over moss-chewed rock,
still,
hovers over sound, i

notice the nacreous dome of sky
and name it.
mother of pearl,

everything in this world’s
fleeting, swirls like jupiter’s eye,
spins, and spins on, alas

i am but a gleaner of world,
gathering pebbles and vistas
and maybe, stumbling across
a phantom hand along
the way.</p