River and Her Man

I, a witty human,
buzz at the surf.
It, a muscular river,
paws at the shale.

A mosquito and a hippopotamus,
we live up to the limit
of each other's worlds.

Applying tiny forces
in highly specific ways,
I call myself
sophisticated.

It roars in ascent
and in retreat,
ever outward facing.

It does not choose.
It is the most complete
embodiment of its own
possibilities.

In a boat, I row across it,
drawing a line
in the extended now
of my inner world.

It whispers
directly into my dreams,
from beneath,
at the softest part of my mind,

rolling against my
least-known shore
and doing what she
always does,

shaping me in ways
my clever brain
will never comprehend.

Half Man Feel Double

I came away from it all
Pulsing with seismic aftershocks

The feeling of having been open
Of having let my substance slip
From cracked hands

It left new marks, 
New scores and scuffs
On oak-hard skin
Added to a thousand,
No different to the casual observer
Than the last raindrop to smear the window,
But spelled out on me in pain
Like a word

I am scattered across oceans,
And the effort of holding myself together
Is so great
That the needle of time
Scratching out tunes on my surface
Pushes too hard, too deep
From the white and dead
Into the living tissue beneath

Painting a Statue of a Woman

Imagine:
the task of applying a coat of paint
to the statue of a woman; 
it would be to apply oneself 
to each and every aspect of her beauty, 
at once frail and human,
at once ethereal and undying; 
it would be a love letter to her, 
even if the statue represented 
no soul on Earth, 
and a love letter to the world; 

and yet all they would see is, 
oh, the statue is duck-egg blue now; 
yesterday, it was white; 
they would not understand the tenderness 
in each brushstroke, 
nor how it felt to take 
each aspect of her unworldly, 
worldly beauty in hand
and show that you understood it; 
understood its posture and geometry, 
understood its relationship with light 
and the human eye; 

the whole time, you would be whispering 
I know, I know, I know, 
I know; and she quietly, not looking up at you, 
would say: I love, I love, I love, 
I love; and you would ask - how could you not? 
You are made of love 
as all works of art are acts of love, 
love letters to the world 
written in self creation and self sacrifice, 
in genuine communication,
with the intention of being overheard; 

every second you would fear 
putting your brush in the pot of duck-egg blue paint 
only to find it dry, 
yet your brush would find it ever lubricious, 
new-smelling with the just-made odour of fresh paint, 
and as you completed the painting, 
you would find yourself wishing 
the gentle agony would never end;

once finished,
you would refrain from kissing her
still-wet duck-egg blue cheek,
and gather up your paints
and painting paraphernalia
as the brightness eased from the light, 
and you would go home, 
your bicycle wheels squealing,
and you sighing in the crepuscule, 
rejoicing that you're going home, 
lamenting that the day and all the work is done.

Solving the Surface

Just as the people could turn their heads in unison
and form a bold new republic,
the waters of the ocean could shift
and reveal the shale and rushes 
of a new continent,
a glistening child world,
knitted together
from corals and ancient whale song

And now knowing that,
you gaze entranced at the water's surface,
wondering what seashell charm
could compel it

Knowing it is possible because it can be seen
in the privacy of the mind's garden
and so also knowing:
the way exists

Shimmering footprints of moonlight hint at 
the great choreography that would enthrall 
the ocean's heart, 
so that it willingly surrendered:

brooding soil, 
swallowed islands, 
lost coins, 
monstrous skeletons,
surf,
mermaid-bearing delirium,
scatterings of stolen light,
fallen mountains, 

and all the other treasures
to which your hand is connect
when you but place it beneath the surface
of the gurgling, swaying, 
salt-crazed waters

And so you stand at the railing,
your eye stroking the soft blue-grey fabrics
and gently coaxing
the birth of a new world

Your Love

Your love is like a red, red knife
and a case of mortuary ice.

Your love is like a smoking pistol
known to the procurator fiscal*.

Your love is like a hangman's noose
just above some swinging boots.

Your love is like the ground up glass
concealed within a cooked breakfast.

Your love is more to me than life
and wholly worth the sacrifice.

*A Procurator Fiscal is a public prosecutor in Scotland with the responsibility, i.a., to investigate all sudden and suspicious deaths.