The sun is setting,

from the water there's darkness --


rising everywhere.

The evening twilight.

Tipping up, I see the white --


scuts of the rabbits.

In quiet nights my grandma cries
We talk of death and people’s eyes
We miss our words, she sees a vein
I ask her, but she’s not in pain

Soft falls the light,
not sea nor beach nor seabird wandering sky
it is by nature separate and entirely of itself
edged in sand, a yellow shade of rippled countenance
not exactly day nor coming night
although the evening tide has lately been
it is a colour somewhere in-between

The ritual after work
in the dark at the end
of the evening twilight

The dim light of the low clouds
in 1883, when the nights in the country
were still black

The farmer stoops
poking a dry smell
from the weeds of the day

It lingers
in a plume of smoke
above the sparks

I like the attic,

sitting in the armchair, in --


front of the window.

Mosquitoes may drink my blood
I stay here to enjoy myself
the blood of the moon

the fireflies in the garden
and the whooping children
around a campfire somewhere

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

My dreams are blind and nameless
They **** on the spot
and eat when I'm away

Maybe it would be easier
without them, but when I see them
asleep, everything is fine

...Behind, a freight train rumbles past
...Once the hooves of bison pounded there

Father is the black

next to the red smouldering --


of the cigar tip.

From the isle we sail

across the lake, a man sings --


and the sun is low.