LOOK BACK IN LANGUOR

Summer never comes till January:
false starts through crooked Spring ,    
breaking of waters in a wet December,
tossed chum/ the blood of christmas. Then HERE.

Our feet like dinosaurs on this beach wearing
gold from the textures of sand

& lovers, we touch
with the sacred clumsiness of monks
hungry seagulls scowl
as tour buses prowl the promenade
a  dance in slow motion           (familiar in the dry notes,
                                 dots amongst coils).

Our thongs wander past
energetic panel vans.
Nearby, some anxious soul says
"there is no fear"         even as he looks.
He is an extra....
           (they also serve who only stand & stare).

"Bang!" she laughed happily. Young women, lycra trips,
falling as the promised old leaves,
falling like the surf,

falling like ink, like
something important

Male hormones above the droplets airborne, each day
heat hangs over everyone
like a loan.
The afternoon breeze arrives innocently
                                                                                            (never, of course, to be trusted).

Children run across the placid surface of sunbaking adults,
someone thinks of dinner.
Hair teased up like parakeet, Matt, The Cork, parades .

Small humours, pigment, the constant breaks.

Look back in languor,
            pure as idiocy
            happy as pharmacy

I ride the curving stream of your neck.
Riding this day.

from the Ways of Ways (Sidewalk 2000)