Wairarapa: day sixteen


my vision is of a line, a line spun with threads
millions, trillions, certainly innumerable
a place that is itself without me, but is rewoven for me
there are many more lines here than my vision
lines of movements, of currents, of footsteps and vehicles,
a crosshatch of life, so too place is a threadwork of thoughts
I am there again now – I dwell here before I sleep

I saw a golden field and I wonder now if I made it
on a warm day, beneath heavy clouds, a slight breeze
that flits amidst the grasses like a percussionist
I burnt my hands – the backs of my hands
they emanate a great heat, as though I caught the sun
my hands shine golden in the dim gloom of my room
it rains today, i cannot imagine the golden field in rain



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