A Roman Computer Limb, Monitoring Clouds

I have no interest in being grandiose or seeking attention
just trace my steps forward in the dark of a free afternoon
and know that now is the only perfect moment, is the only
fucking moment at all, spiritualise your personal language
and call it leisure time, send telepathic messages through the ether
totally irrelevant observations like the colour of the clouds
or the shadows of leaves and trees dancing through the room
as if through water and the petals of yesterday curling
beyond delicate in my silly mouth full of holes, blood runs
through our veins of its own accord, we are plunged ahead
and it is a relief to be naked when you realise everything is
as real as you, our life is very tender and we are living it
through time with each other, generating from feelings precariously
stacked over every second in existence up until this point
our very breath is fuel and fruit and the candle is blown out
when it is, so rest in a sun ray in the pool of my cupped hands
let the flailing waves pound against shiny rocks while black
and white water dilutes what I have down to breadcrumbs
we are a timeless tender portal under a steel sky with a clear glaze
ordering words in lacquered solitude and sending a long dark boat
to somewhere else that encompasses my great uncertainty
reaching silently across all the gross revelations of new times
flexible with everyone but myself, the terror of willful forgetting
and awe is a clue; is a detail caught but we are not a helpful factoid yet
my obligations are all those I give myself and all that sustained
attention is lying on the bed in my underwear staring at faraway points
people dash through a mad carpet of white daisies, we scratch
at the details of cumulative mystery and turn everything into a symbol
our inebriated diary keeping is blown clean of the weirdest mess
and the true mission of looking out different windows on a journey
with frozen face to the minimalist sun leads to wish growing places
and meaning space and once the step is taken, the path is new.





Shar Quick is a poet living in Auckland where she works for the public libraries. She is a compulsive reader, dreamer and lover of animals, words and The Universe.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.