no fault line

adjusting to the changing skylines and the sharpness of the light. these days the desert oscillates; coolness weaving between the warmth. we move in unison; the weather and I.

so many snapshots of this yo yo dancing; my heart feels cataclysmic. fine threads traced to the end of the rainbow. we arch across the sky in search of gold.

on reflection these things are seismic. each shock a sign of deeper shifts. somewhere there is an opening.

i peer gleefully into the abyss

tick tock

the morning is an explosion. in the wreckage i find the safe where i'd hidden myself before the bombs went off.

a forgotten splinter resurfaces through skin. fingernails gouge deeper, resurrecting long buried wounds.

the next big thing

i grow sharp with teh air and the sky.

sashimi slicing through should dos. layered thinly on the pallete. savouring each small victory as it glides from hand to mouth.

late night waxing about the meta and micro leaves us smooth come morning light. i move between these circles until they overlap; tracing impressions of venn diagrams on my skin.

my lover returns past midnight.
my dreams find safety inh his skin.

the day after the one before

the storm subdue. the earth dampened. the day begins with softer hues.

big sky dreaming, hemmed by ranges. my eyes search for a single ghost gum. marker on the horizon cut short by the undulation of ancient ranges. despite the elongated lists my heart stays steady, encased in this garden retreat.

despite the barrage of cataclysm and change my soul finds terra firma. washed up on the shores of reflex and reflection, i survey the terrain. this oasis is not an island but an extension of all that has come before.

there are no disconnections, no loose links in the chain. we can only understand ourselves in reverse. i capture these moments in pockets between muscle and bone.

despite my ruminations i am grateful for all that has transpired.

life line

thoughts open to softest downpour. everything is washed clean.

my eyes tire of these green horizons. diasporic longing for red sand and clear skies. the paradox of wanting the rare to retain it's distant shimmer.

cracks turn to gaping chasms depite shovelloads of fertile soil and conversation. that which cures can also kill. and it's still early days....

i retreat. seek self protection.
the life line lays limp in the dust

each smaller than the one before

overwhelemed by big picture framing I find peace in the procession of small things.

that which was settles into the dust. that which is rises up from the water. these basic experiments in physics and focus must be repeated over and over again.

my heart yearns for it; the small peices of pie left like lights on a runway, illuminating the path to the sky. a steady remembrance like small household vigil; a quiet light lit in windows at night.

i am slowly working my way through these lists.
it is all that my heart can withstand.

a soft place

peice by peice things find their right place. that which was turbulent finds equilibrium. my heart slows to a swagger. my compass corrects itself. the squall returns to the sea.

all things have their time. hands meeting and parting. small measurements of what has passed.

i am finding that soft place, where things become simple. where my heart need not worry for a while.

on waves and shallows

i duck my head and allow the waves to wash over me.

emerging from the fog of days spent with breath held, mind racing through the tick tock of slumber. these old wounds resurface as scabs picked and peeled. i am fearful of repeatitions and regressions.

but the simple sunlight of clear sky eyes sweep over me just the same. feet first i slide into my subconcious and allow myself to drift downstream. carrying with me all that is not washed away; smooth skin and shining desire