Runnels

The book you can’t put down

didn’t seduce the reader

The pen may stop

but not the mind belied

by those imagined eyes

that read the script

Scrivel is scribed

on any dirty wall

On every tree trunk

all wide open skies

and the face of each potato

scrubbed clean

and readied for the oven

the message

the nutrient uttered

before it dies

The water drops and dries

and washes colours as it describes

in runnels

the way the reader felt

Grant Duncan 7.7.12

Distance overcome

And the sheen on his heart

was the surface of a shadow

as the boy took pity

on a single stalk of clover

No-one knew that poet

who saw this from afar

Who is the poet? she asked

and someone replied

He is half a man

and half a dog

chewing bones of once-living things

sniffing out the left-over needs of his other half

looking for a place to lie

and rest his dirty paws

Like him I have seen it pour like rain

and ripple over concrete

and I’ve smelt the saline air

and crunched the pebbles of that shore-line

of my love

And I know your mind

as I know your tongue

How soft your hand was then

You sort of led our way

to a place I know quite well

and there you pointed to a coffin

alluding to the man within

He did not stir visibly

But we move with him in mind

and with each move we make

tighten the knots that tie us                                                     

Grant Duncan

Wellington–Auckland 22.6.03

For Wallace or Samuel

Nothing could be changed so smoothly

nor inform the eye so thoroughly

as editing at will

And I anticipate retribution

now at the clammy hands

of your dual ghosthood

Remind me what it was really like

when light streamed through dust

and took to dark ink

as fondly as to a parrot’s wing

Lucky bastards

Your wonderings are over

and those carets that pointed

to once omitted things

intrude and shoulder a word or two

aside no more

                                                                                   Grant Duncan 29.6.12