calling

calling

the stars are
young voices
in a park
deep into the
stone-washed
blue of evening
the moon atop
that sky
a ferris wheel
drawing them in,

cyclades

cyclades*

the eye
finds the islands
in that light
on the sea,
so a sculptor
forms in
marble.
on that island
they ply the
village salad
with salt,
on this they
inquire whether
your stomach’s
off should you
order tea,

otago sky

otago sky

all the leavings of stone
and sky from creation
that fateful day
are dumped
here
i saw skies
in one
this early morning
stormings of cloud
long shores of it
burstings of gutted
pink torn out
of the pages
of genesis
poplar towers
poplar shoals