Wellington is windless and wildly
blue. The house has newly-painted red
doors that match the shoes I bought last night.
All night I’ve been swimming a huge
deeply-flowing river, watching a swirl
of teeming insects or filling in
statistics on recreation.
The kids are inking Pac-man over
everything. He’s munching food, faces,
words and other Pac-men. Two friends
are coming this weekend: one serene
as Krishnamurti has a new man
who wears just one earring, the other
is unrelentingly herself. I know
women too frightened to leave their own
houses, sleeping beauties. Don’t for Christ’s
sake wait for any prince to show up.
Fashion one from a rib or sling up
onto the wild horse rearing in your
mind. These words won’t be slapped down to size
they’re putting on their blue shoes, mounting
their red horses and swirling out un-
relentingly over everything.
From It has no sound and is blue (VUP, 1987)
© Dinah Hawken