The truth is dark outside the curtain.

Your eyes are closed to the falling snow

that's nestling at the feet of tall trees

that stand close and crowded 

as commuters on the evening train.

If there's a purpose to pain

it's to teach you how to let go.

You didn't realise it but

you can learn to live with the quiet

learn to listen to the space 

of someone's absence.

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Late morning

the sun high

above the harbour

all is quiet

except for the ferry

that docks every hour

to collect the tourists

and the occasional

morning boat

tugging slowly to it’s destination.

The sea is calm

and glinting softly

and there is nothing turbulent,

no breeze or murmur,

no mention of the way

the world really is,

so you know you must

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The pipes ticking,

the radio’s voices quietly conspiring,

the cat as if drunk

clanking about the kitchen,

I practice bare attention

and open myself to it all

the moment

the room, the moonlight

the chair by the window

waiting as if for a ghost

a book upturned, open on a page

I’ve read and reread a thousand times

and train my breath and listen

and recall inten...

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Here is the truce

between us,

a little truce

that may not make the night

but let us keep it

like you keep a flame

alive with cupped hands

when the wind is blowing

let us nurture it

like a baby bird

that we suspect will not make it.

It is almost sweet

how we treat one another

when we know

it will not last,

let us survey the rubble

in the momentary

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I’m still leaning at this table

working to an electric lamp

trying to solve the riddle

of the predicament.

While the moth taps at the window

and the kitchen ticks dryly

like the secret workings of a clock.

The spider and I weaving quietly in our corners,

we’re like the collaborators

in the prison scene after lights out,

still combing the blueprints,

mast...

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Stopping enroute to pee

I catch the moon’s great white face

shining at the window like a prison

light above the courtyard.

Whoever it was looking for

must be long gone,

there is nothing now

except for a few delusions;

like your shadow in the dark

and the ghost of the cat

that recently died

brushing his way quietly

between my legs.

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Time moves in one direction memory another,

I’m watching light slowly cross a pavement

reminding me of a man whose walk took longer each day,

how he’d stop at each garden on the road

wanting to reveal every flower to you by name;

the camelia, primrose and peonies,

the rising tulips and climbing morning glories,

the sun pulling back shadow, slow and steady,

he wanted to teac...

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We eat waffles in bed

With coffee

In the morning

The cat sat fat between us,

Outside the sun is shining

And the birds are happy

It is spring,

Fortune has dealt it's hand

And we're sunny side up

Knowing nobody will come

Calling for us today

We can sit undisturbed

And digest the Sunday news

And orientate ourselves

For the week ahead;

The bombing in Ist...

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I lean into the olive air

To meet it’s envelope of voices

Rising from the restaurant below.

A last group spilling

Into the dim lights of the town square.

A crescendo of young men on mopeds,

Women in white laughing arm in arm

Is followed by a sense of retreat

A surging of palm leaves

A sadness of waves sorry with their part;

That constant need to b...

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Late summer

The swallows won't sleep

They're swooping restless

In the deepening pool

Above the fading garden.

Even as the trees stiffen

They’re shrieking and calling,

Turning and leaping

Like the boys of Punta Negra,

Who lept from high rocks

For the gasps of tourists,

Threatening their diminutive frames

In an obscure game

Of endless summer.

But for wh...

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The vaporetto between San Marco

And the glass island of Murano

Is busy with tourists June through August.

A mass, a mob, crossing scattered islands,

Sun stroked couples, the Germans and English

With knapsacks and maps, sweltering in sun

Vying for shade in barbed heat, arms outstretched

A reek of closed bodies and sweating sea.

At such a time you wouldn’t see a fal...

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The snow is blowing

Blustery from the roof,

You say everything is simple

But I’m no longer sure,

When I grow terribly bored

I start rearranging rooms

Attempting to sweep

The dust from my life

Trying to recall a time

When everything was romantic

And I could trick myself

My heart was in my pocket;

A book of poems

By an American poet

Who drank too much.

...

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Another vacant month.

Outside the trees are trembling;

The loose elms

Emptying their calendar of pages.

Everything is quieting,

Dimming,

In the light of evening

You’d need sharp eyes

To pick the poor fly

Amongst the petals of the peony

Perfectly intact,

Except for life

That must have crawled out

While nobody was looking,

Like the stuntman

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