The doors being shut<\/i><\/p>\n
The moon\u2019s soft gong
\nhas sounded somewhere, dawn
\nair padding at it, and the dense
\nflurry rises, prickles and liquid,
\nchit and purr, and the breath
\nof soil, grass, blossom, the dressing
\ngown, drapery not yet burned
\noff by hardworking heat.<\/p>\n
Walk into it, the cloud
\ndiscovered only in this
\ncold space, walking a tall
\nman\u2019s length from the next
\nriser from sleep. This is
\nthe cloud in which stones
\ngrind fast, spark, and the first
\nfire jumps out above the sun.<\/p>\n
Noli me tangere<\/i><\/p>\n
I could have said, Don\u2019t touch
\nme<\/i>; never mind the doctrine
\nmandating your distance, why
\nshould you have the right
\nto probe and roam wincing skin,
\nbrowsing to find the little
\ndoorways into familiar pains?
\nI don\u2019t want what I know,<\/p>\n
I don\u2019t want thick air,
\nthe breathless damp neighbourhood
\nof voices and beating words,
\nthe cloud swaddling and rubbing
\nwith old practised polishing
\nweeps of a working thumb. A tall
\nman\u2019s length from me, do you know
\nhow I want that?<\/p>\n
Heart burn<\/i><\/p>\n
Standing here, weather
\nmoves through us, drifts
\nlike microbes or like neutrons
\nfalling, clouds of prickling
\nsong or picking nails. A tall
\nman\u2019s length away, unmoving,
\nis the visitor, whether in touch
\nor not I can\u2019t decide.<\/p>\n
The moon, rinsed to a shred,
\ndissolves. Clouds are sucked
\nupwards. Light turns raw,
\nearth dries out. So what am I
\nhungry for, the globe of shining
\ndistance, for the palm
\nof breath and liquid sound against
\nthe face, for the thin, thin<\/p>\n
Unseeable gap between breath
\nand breath, opening and clenching,
\nwhere it burns so hard, so
\nquick you don\u2019t know hot
\nfrom cold or now from then
\nor I and it, the needle point
\nwhere the gong starts to blossom
\nand the air quivers with wounds and difference?<\/p>\n