now on the bus, starting to snow
                 
space; sea of air; flotsam; sea of cold water; ligan; sea of lava
[they looked down into a fjord and said] “This place we can only call Iceland”
Sigríður [daughter of farmer, Tomas] who wouldn’t sell the waterfall, wouldn’t sell a friend
 
and within and beyond Ísland and within and beyond everything, there is so much
none of it staying still
[since tectonic theory emerged in the 1970s, there is only movement]
                 
release in underwater eruptions or bubbles or slowly creeping pillows of rock
re-leasing out the land, the air, yourself, and everyone else to new things and unthings and looking back and finding that the past has melted and you stand now on a different rock
 
Lou Reed said it about Yeezus: “it’s like the visuals at the end of the new Superman movie – just overwhelmingly incredible. I played it over and over”
 
                                                                                                                                             [and over]

New Leaves
For LM
​
There is a moment,
just before the beginning,
where the light slides up the walls
to avoid oncoming traffic
and is draped boldly over buildings
until it is one bright, burning canvas
with house fronts sketched loosely on,
ready to be washed away
by the incoming ending.
There is a moment,
as the very air breathes slowly in
and the darkness of the sky above
accentuates the bright aliveness below-
and the whole of Oxford unfurls, lily-like
begging for the sky’s caresses.
There is a moment,
 just before the world collapses inwards,
when all the corbels, the towers,
the rooftops, the old college doorways,
the pub fronts, the bus stops,
the cobbles, the church spires,
the gnarled and twisted trees
that lean on the fences of University Church:
when all of Oxford undresses,
and waits for the wash of the rain.
And we two will stop
somewhere out in those streets,
and leave our busy lives behind 
 to lean on the wall with our bicycles
as we walk, hand in hand, down to the meadows
watching the water trickle down each other’s hair.
Just in that moment.

​Aquarius, letting go
 
on the surface, sea melts the horizon.
light blinding as grief –
the mind blanks at the glare.
 
this is the inbetween place.
the space between sky and base.
 
a bottle afloat, bereft of miniature vessel.
the ship long adrift, sunken and free.
 
this is the time of release.
 
in true order, content fills form.
years hollow. in breach, the body
becomes buoyant, fast as an anchor.
 
sea bright glimmers. sky empty as a page.
goodbyes flow in choked whispers
tears flicker in the waves
 
they weight, fill with our love
and into the deep
you fade

The Orchard
for Les
 
Just sixty years ago today, the tree
was planted in soil, the seeds dry and dark,
being sown by newlyweds next door. Across
the years it creaked up from the rust-brown dirt
until it stood upright, a monolith
of the garden.
                          Today we took it down.
The tree had died where its bark had shed
away; each swipe of the cold axe-head
secured his mind and memories to the ground.
The brown dust circle held us positive
he wouldn’t come home,
                                              his mind in parts--
the first swing of iron—the ambulance towards
their house the day we broke into that trunk--
 
a fog like no other fog coming down the road