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Paula Greenonline works |
Two Minutes Westward track, cloud before rock, rock before flax because in the stillness we find the noise of an ocean sinking roots sunk fierce into how to be westward. Westcoast skin. Westcoast blood. Westcoast bone. Stepping into this sweet cyclone of silence we are pinned to the inlet cool and spare like a roving eye disappearing and feeding on heavenly wings halfway to paradise with a divine map for romance those perspiring sonnets and me doubled back laughing like death. This is high and on the edge vertigo looping the Te Henga cliff tops behind us a flower might blossom a musical note might flare but one thing’s for sure here on cold mornings here where love is snacking the risk of heights punctuates a risk we take our heartbeats startled at the startled kereru. A word for his skin a word for his bone a word for his blood then memory steadies the erring waterfall the white plume of the heron all dried up. Still I keep the ancient preserve of kauri stuck in my guts some kind of brace because I will hurl all the old figures over the edge in one foul swoop down there into the seething steaming black sanded heart of the west coast sea. Holding his hand at midnight beneath the starry sky I will try and let Ulysses loose and Virgil’s honey tongued ritorniamo nel chiaro mondo? Vediamo le cose belle che porta il cielo? Holding his hand at midnight and kissing those amber lips here in the light belief that a word will dig the pit for the featherweight myth. Turn your head my dearest to the left stand still and hear the droning brook or the otherwhere hum of the bee. Still. Stand still. Turn your ear to the right and hear the wind rubbing across the track a pocket of nectar and linseed oil pressing against my spine. Would we take a boat home across the wild comfort?
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