I can make new things become old friends just by looking at them for long enough.
There’s the black-green feathers of a Tui as it drinks desperate nectar –
its voice is a bell and a crack, a telephone’s ring.
This is the kind of bird who chases away anything that looks the same as itself.
Morning comes with dreams of missing faces talking missing years in missing voices
A crowd of hers and hims and shes and hes and yous.
I’m sleep-listening without hearing because everyone I miss talks all at once.
Thought paths like disappearing plane-trails, is this too far to write lines to?
Everyone sees only what is exactly here.
So I’m sending invisible airmail in pictures and noise–
have this glimpse of light yellow flowers
and the sound of three clocks ticking through another quiet day.
If you look, I’ll show you this Kowhai tree, flowering in early yellow –
between brown seeds in hanging vertical gulps.
The grip of Tui-claws make petals shake and fall
on branches they don’t even scratch. I’ll show you the daffodils I didn’t know grew here
and the sunshine in my lovers eyes as she puts them in my hands.
I’m thumb-printing the window with condensation gradients:
in glass-widths and dream-depths, some map I once travelled cold.
Here, there’s love, and the real things I can hold in both palms
the sound of envelopes as they’re torn open. A bird in a tree. Spring.
Soon there will be a birthday where I’ll remember having friends close enough to party with,
and this kiss.
Later still, there will be gathered birthdays, and new flowers.