Insect

In a brown hotel room my heart still beats.

I flushed a small black fly down the loo;

it swirled and gurgled, floats like a dot.

(I may flick it out from predictable spin

recover it pointlessly) like memories

laid kicking and insect-like, slowly turning.

Years ago I saw a huge bug battle for life;

a bluebottle whizzed on its back interminably.

But for now I recycle time, rotating words,

on reclaimed paper with recycled ink.

Outside, cars hum; remaking a buzzing

of insects as life-blood - now fuel, and oil.

Everything rotates (except while tears blub

or eyes flash or sweat breaks:) when I smile at a truth.

Al

An old mate called Al
studied intently
the Gurdjieff movements
for one and a half decades:

intricate dancing
clear little head-turns
dervishes’ fingers,
hands, feet and eyeballs.

At Christmas time he suggested
carving silence on his inside,
tiny and sweet like a still-point
(in the eye of a tornado)’s
the most amazing thing he learned:
hollowed be thy name.

Woodburner Glamour

Roaring hot and hard today;
heart of orange, lumber, flame
fed by hand and fed by draught,
breathe and splutter, have a laugh.

See through my window
bellowing shadow,
feel my face shining,
hear my voice singing;

guffaw a minute,
take without effort,
always adore me,
eagerly gaze at me:
red-hot I’m bolder,
blue and I’m colder.