Holding an unopened envelope
waiting to run,
to throw each sentence under the pillow
or bury it with all the others.

I don't want to 
think
I must write
later
I won't be
able to.

With one look, a single thought
my back is an arch ready to tumble.

I tighten
my stomach so I can't eat
that food
that poison,
that passion,
that is only, is only,
something that cannot be watered.
Only tears, only clouds moving from a distance -
humidity.

Glancing at you as you press
past me with more to do and no time
words and more than words hurt.

Whatever you do I look for a way
to trail flowers in your hair...

perhaps when you are an old man

or at your grave
as I shield my face,

or perhaps at my grave -

your heart will fall into my mouth
and it will be olives and sweet water
and oil and burning chilli
and the slow calm of Greek yoghurt

and the melt of South Island ice
racing toward a wider sea.

I still love...

what else can I write.

  © 2000