I know of a dream full of trees.
A river with a passion for hearing grief.
A room with all its furniture from heaven
and an angel disguised as a ceiling.
In that dream my platelets succumbed
To bees, inverted every cloud in my veins.
I am made from pohutukawa and soil.
Since my hair stopped glittering I have
Struggled to live. I tried to eat constellations.
I was involved in the secretion of honey,
Stabilizing the accumulation of wharves in its blood.
The first ship I boarded is my stone.
The first car I touched is my bad luck.
The first incision I saw I dreamed no more.
From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)
© John Pule
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