Into The Valley
I stroked this feathery infinite thing
across paddocks close boned with the shining flanks of cows
the centre of my world a rusting chair
perched over tufts of wild blown grass
my body cold in night’s dark corners
three horses stood with windswept manes
necking for pleasure in moonlight
their elegant legs and fancy longhaired hooves
merging into nothing not one thing
as they twitched and trembled out of sight
inside a simple ball rolled from the hands of my son
frightened by beasts whose hooves thundered in his dream
further out a dead white tree standing
in eternity and in its words and cries
I heard the language of the dead
the way their lips could not move
the way their dreams spilled like water
over never ending grass into morning
into feathers into space
into the cold sides of a rusting chair.
Head Space
I have a tendency to float
without my head
like a stalk without a flower
winnowing over a ledge
sometimes my head
bobs up over the back
of chairs at parties and
someone throws it a grape
or I introduce it casually
oh yes and this is my head
and what do you do?
well I normally sit on a neck
for days at a time
but I’m going it alone
for the time being
I turn to shut myself up
forgetting I am headless
and my mouth is somewhere
I’m not—it’s times like this
I fancy a drink.