On the confines of this piece of land
I am all, the killer, carer, the breath
rousing spiders from webs so I can sweep them away
planting Iceland poppies in the West Auckland clay
sitting up at night dreaming the sounds of words
that melt in and out of my porous head.
I execute roses, snipping off a browning head
carrying it to a hollow so it'll rot into the land
hearing my children arguing and singing words
across the room. The humid air is a breath
I drink it in, turning it to fleshy clay,
it's like locking its clean joy away.
I stop up the doors at night to keep away
the hard, dark and demon with the horned head
whose magic can turn life blood into clay
these spirits have no boundaries to their land
so trespass into mine to suck our breath
we must be vigilante and offer holy words.
Daylight brings the muse, my pen writes words
that please me for a few minutes and then are put away
until I can inject them with creative breath
the heat of ideas hurting the core inside my head
I walk outside and touch the sweaty land
grounded by the knowing we're of the same clay.
The feijoa sinks its roots into clay
I am it, half here and half in words
with roots in a subconscious land
that leaves my body but takes my mind away
there are worlds and comets in a head
we're earthed by the heat of people's breath.
I am a world boxed in by another, drawing breath
split into air/flame, water/clay
one kingdom has a fence, another a head
the steady fruit trees anchor me without words
and restore me to a patch of land
where it creates me, kills me, smooths the pain away.