Two Poems

We bump along the bottom of the seabed

grinding through a sediment of dead things.

Grotesque illuminated residents

mouth at our leaden form.

Radio silence, movement minimal.

The world of air and light and sound

is no more than a dream

nestling in the corner of a vacant eye.

Lungs and heart still function

with slow imploded thuds and sighs;

A kind of soft violence

insisting on existence.

Perhaps a murmured command

will coax the dull machine to life.

Jet, black, coal, hematite, slate,

whatever your composition

you have been dark-polished

by waves endlessly beating, lashing, grinding.

Then buffed gently by my hand,

while I walked from the rock pool

where gleaming like a night jewel

you called me to you.

Now clasped in the embrace of palm and fingers

You are constant stillness,

I less than a thought

as I linger on the pavement

outside the place where twice a week

I hold on tight and hold my breath

to stop myself melting into the floor

or exploding onto the walls.

That quiet room where I pass

you from one hand to the other

examining your surface sheen,

avoiding another's gaze.

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