(i)
how new the world is
trying to find
nerve in an old rind

(ii)
the bread is crumbled
for birds to swallow
rolled into droppings
flowers from the hair
of noseless statues
tyrants of parks
where men have cowered
too long and mistaken
unmanned by he dark

(iii)
when we awaken
(how have we fallen)
machines are broken
wires lie strangled
by the messages they nursed
lathes are swinging
from trees in derision
pipes burst and scalded
houses contorted
(what went on in such rooms
that stare from their windows)
cars tap the kerb
their eyes put out
by the order of fingers
that have jabbed
through the skin of the earth
infected with visions

there is ink in us
swirling (if we spill it
we bloom) - no writing
erupting from the cave
where the guilt-laden
beast has his parchment
will do for our murders

we must stab with a
brash shape of pen
no quill but a sting-ray

(iv)
marshes are the womb
of the poor - the flowers
that creep out of doors
will be crowned by and by
will unite with the worm
who (crawling for light
in the last breath of time)
mangles itself in the cogs
of the cyclops
who crashes to death
unable to function
hence the sun is revealed

parasites begin the digestion
in the harsh shack of winter
corn is conspired
the marsh bares its breast
to a medal
a gold
leaf is born - there is
hatred and hunger
a cry
from the rushes
proclaims a long journey
whose sundown will
see us in safety - whose home
be our grave
where we scratch
there is blood on the rockface

that we murder ourselves
is no setback - we arise
from the tomb unprovided
what-is-known is our crutches
let the light kick them from us
the sun eats us up and renews us

inside me am i turning to stone
the drill niggles downwards
there may be oil in my bone
though the flesh is all gone
only in the dark was it dumb

if we squeeze our darkness
through a doorway
what new voice might come

(v)
how old the world is
trying to put
grey on a green shoot

how thick the answers
when questions find
nerve in a new mind