Port Levy, Listening

Where did this knowing come from?

Prattling at the prow of the yacht.
Lipping at the limbs of stone.

And in the hiss of kelp, heaving
like your rising gorge,
or a child's bad dream, strands
from the drowned gorgon's head.

And in the slow
metabolisms of

the rockpool
vesicles of light

continued breathing

their fragile
membranes pulsate

with obscure
and maybe cross


Afterwards, beneath the macrocarpas
in the smells of sex and resin.

It was the way
you laughed

and hurried back
into sunlight.

You might have heard it then,
in that silence just before the words.

It was the end
of something

which we did not
quite begin.

Where does the knowing come from?

Noiseless in the branches,
muted on the moonlit water.

Voices, voices. And the long night
slips beneath our eyelids.