We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The river roams narcotics rising through the systems & the streets
We pass these statues all our lives: we do not need their names

The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls
Searching the surf for their purpose & carrion to feed the young
They hover their bulk above the wires of our tiny electric trains

Then drift to outposts & new construction built of dereliction
Into the plain livid always leave behind imaginations –
Fishing boats tilt from side to side dredging bones from the shale

We are past the point of reclamation now we are embedded
Tearing our limbs from the concrete we think it has not set
We drag our bodies from place to place until we find a grave

A worm pit or a scattering that suits our aspiration:
We spend our time in Georgian rooms dreaming of the future
The sound of the sky is black with thunder & sheets of cawing gulls

We telephone              we email          we transmit some feelings
We mark time with photographs of sunshine and kittens
Or Sisyphus a smile singeing his lips

                                                                  set for the last great push

from Zinger (Salmon Poetry, forthcoming 2013) / first published in Southword

Greenland is breaking off the port side
the plane we travel on tilted
drawn back by the earth now and then
Beneath us ice packs open across melting outposts
and terminal glaciers find their way
again into valleys and streams
inching out of mountains
New drifts begin to build and
in our heaving transport
we chart a course that it might be altered –

Greenland is breaking off the port side
we move with the speed of hot metal and kerosene
above the traces of future states
by which the states we know
will be consumed and replaced

Taken from Zinger (due October 2013). First published in The Bare Hands Anthology (2012).