Ribbed and scurrying, a bus passes me;
the sweat in airy beads drips to my
bicycle knees. I am going everywhere,
today. The ride is smooth, my mind is loose,
the breeze is flesh and sweeps me—
snatches of light-petaled afternoons.
Pedalling backpacks to Point Chevalier,
to the holy lips of Auckland harbours. Eager gusts
helping me over wire-knit fences. The trees,
bent and ardent, committing in droves and I, flocking
them all with my library copies, with my hands full of
apples, with my eyes to the sea.
Days so pointed, with such loose intentions
I felt the clarity to the ankle-bones; days so sure
it took a year to feel them.
When the voices spoke my dialect, I
listened and wrote; when they didn’t, I
listened and wrote. I listened
to all of it, letting self-solutions
swirl into rivers, feet-first. The physical
seated at the outdoor cafe, the physical
squatting on the steps of the city square, the physical
standing upon the misty stage of the train platform. I saw the windows
beneath fogged breath and thought
she looked familiar. Self-conscious with repetition
self-conscious with existence, occupied by memory
I let myself loose &
my voice in tussock-valleys lavished with sun;
as much as I could possibly bear, til
a lightened pack and the swing of my arms.
Hugging tight, I walked.
Walked past cairns of echoing footsteps,
walked up ridges full of richness,
walked across rivers beset with stones.
Letting go of voices
I swung myself around;
meaning well, I counted breaths,
meaning well, I walked until
meaning came to me in waves—
In tiny kisses, in flocks of water birds,
in rushes of winter waves and sea-light spilling
against my flesh. In the feeling of beaming,
in the feeling of ease, in the feeling of rapturous
skin to skin, I felt myself lose myself,
let myself root.
Days so pointing, with such loose intentions
I feel the clarity in my ankle-bones; days so sure
it will take a year to feel them.