HIGH TIDE AND LOW TIDE

When I wake and you come in
and tell me you just saw a dog
washed up on the beach; looked
like something'd mauled it out-
maybe even a shark!

Or when I'm eating toast and you come in;
tell me how sharp the sun
flicks the horizon and covers your face.

Or when the white crab
crawled outta that dead
dog's mouth.

OPTURA

Up at dawn, and before dawn
I throw a sheet of photographic paper
over the sky to cover the field of stars

hold the paper down, press it, let it set
like a white leaf inside a book-
until the stars press into the paper.

A likeness is enough to love-
I sneak back to the room
with my canvas of night;

tack it to the ceiling, before
you wake to count the stars.

ALL THE NIGHTS

Nights, I stand away from the light emissions
that wing the house, long enough for my eyes
to adjust to the dark and see white ornaments.

Some nights, the air stills and allows the slightest
sound to click out. Some nights I almost meditate,
right there on the edge of the field, and the stoop
across my back relaxes to a dip.

This night, it's the sound of feet striking through
the grass- in an instant; my neighbour dashes
past my night-vision, pointing his shotgun
to something ahead in his torchlight.

He didn't see me, the epiphany I had hooked
or the altar I'd built from night.

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