Lone Kauri (reprise)
So take for starters the surge-black fissure,
the waves which register the lunatic sense it is all well beyond us. Our flooded nature
rages at the dying light, measures
its measures down some lone goat-track, works up some incorrigible reprise
on grace, etc., a tuning fork
striking itself out of true on the table of the elements. But blow, burn, break
and be done with it: baptism will
look like this, the flailing, the flensing of waves and the breath knocked into you, the haul
that finds you first-footing land, brings
the morning. Forgive my making light of the glass half-empty and you weighing up the dregs;
but I will get up like a love-cast father
awakening to children’s voices, the night- time true underfoot, who hears their laughter
and finds, at the unclosed door, the seam of light.
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