Sunday, March 30, 2014

The Book I Never Wrote in New Zealand

Unbidden, everything from nothing
Falls continually back again. Novel

Desires, fantastic notions, and plain
Observations toil their way into view

By the vast lavender hedges,
The English hedgehogs and lawns

Edged in manuka, eucalyptus,
The tootling of tuis, little fantails,

And the impossibility of narrating
The sunshine on the meadow-roofed

Maca house near Wanaka, naked
Summer of nothing to do

But write the one book to secure
A future of nothing more to do.

Unbidden, the sweet honey creeps
Into the veins, the book falls to hand

That someone else wrote about
Someone else writing, not writing

But wanting to, the picnic of forever
Fading as the smiling eyes close.

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