KORU
And the seasons course around
and what do I have to show for it?
A holy relic here,
a discarded berry laying on a fence post.
Holiest sanctuary—
the posterior vanes all slurry and water washed in the grey surf.
A jar filled with the curving koru shells,
white and delicate.
How I mourned ways
and how I coursed through the fields all whiplash and sullen silence.
Sometimes the sunset emerges triumphant,
sometimes hesistant on the road back
when I am driving—
which I said I wouldn't.
I was emphatic
and the road coarsens and passes by,
the patience of this time.
The days of heaviness in the fields,
all around turning to haystacks.
Without the rural idyll;
cast it off,
it has no need for you.
There I was—
temporarily Apollo.
On the quad bike aflame,
my bedsheets a trammel.
And falling everywhere,
my body darkened in the sun and hardened.
And the weight of the confusion
is the heaviest of sunsets.
Curving around
and placed into a jar.