new zealand electronic poetry centre

John Puhiatau Pule


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Inside its voice only festivals could be heard.
Sometimes rooms are filled with emigrants
to increase the vascular cells of disembarkation.
I stand up and make my way to your bed
 
to find you sleeping in hexagonal limbo;
a comb stuck in the moon; bird turns into
a mirror to contain the brightness of this planet.
I wake up; in order to make sound I stare at
 
your beauty. I turn you onto your stomach
and enter from behind. You raise your arse
so I may saturate the evening. Deep.

Preoccupation with your breathing, pluvious,
Sometimes obnoxious, but always oceanic,
Always, in spite of conflicts, very polynesian.

 

 

From 100 Love Poems (Earl of Seacliff, 2005)

John Pule
 


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Last updated 25 September, 2005