I
Boat
I am the old boat,
sundered, ankled.
The crack of axe,
split and fisherman
fingered.
The spiders web,
dead round louse,
shanks hanging from
the butchers hook
bloating.
So can you touch
my secret seashell,
pink and milk white?
Oh no! My genes won’t
open.
II
Cart horse
I am cart horse,
thick with it,
stronger than ever,
no longer expecting
perfection.
Grown over like forest floor,
burned and knitted,
matted and clayed,
opened and old,
proud and unfolding.
I am cart horse,
thick with it,
ploughing my rough furrow,
part of the charcoal
horizon now.
III
Sand dunes
For years no one’s here
to see the weather
to which I’m naked
loved then fiercely hated.
Roughly, like my mother,
she butts and nudges me.
Until, slowly as geology,
I change and open,
and let this life
become my possibility.
