Nicholas Green

It paints the walls white
It is the sheets pulled back
It is table lamp dust
And a kitchen waiting
...

They have become still as figments at a wake.
They stand, sun-meditating.
They are post-diluvial,
Stretching in the dry sun.
...

Do not gulp up this sad air do not
Dip your head into joy do not
Engulf sound's bubble do not
Recall the bird-black future do not
...

We threw the side-axe into Death's throat.
Over the side of the sea
We blew our oars. Our sails
Became wind-fat, eager to reach
...

The glittering nowt
Comes pouring out of days

It is an eruption of nothing
...

Rape takes the house
Into the attic of cold yet

Ravening pulls the north down
...

Unlike the morning sleuth I moil:
Around and back and around
Until the sun
Pads cunning over the compass.
...

They are the shrill fingers of the sea.
They are beyond the briny pale.

Their excitement is made of salt.
...

‘There's no place where land ends and philosophy begins.'
Explorers knew this. They went in search of
Philosophy's horizon.
They never found it.
...