The valley dreaming
This world has tenuous membranes.
One glass bead poised on a grass tip.
Mist hanging in suspended animation.
What’s real is of no concern
in this dripping in-between.
A sudden shriek
of orange lichen and kea wing.
A mis-placed step
and the scree slope beneath subsiding
deludes us that we are awake.
It’s only as we puncture our way out
on the last day
that a new skin forms quietly behind us.
Poems