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Green Point

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1997-1999

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Mirror halves of lobster shells on two plates,

and words as hand to hand, the wine and spark

fall behind with whisky and a will to climb

we leapt with the waves about the shelf of rock

at the abrupt end of the beach’s seen move of land.

 

This way!  In brilliant dark words enough to guide me

over the boulder-broken point, birds have buried

their heads under wings, there’s  silence but for the

metrics of my pulse working with the furling surf.

This way! And we clamber the quiet wall.

 

Above, we talk above ourselves of the via lacta,

milk of star-spattered sky bright enough

to read our thoughts by:  Orion to the north

with other friends, the Cross to the south is ours,

and below from the distance that binds this moment

with light and drinking of whisky the sober talk

is drunk with the breeze, the ocean, and the night.