Speaking In Tongues
Scribbling In Voices



Come Back Home

The Big Blue


Dark reflection of light,

Soft as dust on the shelf,

Will appear to fight

Irretrievable self.

From the masts of a ship

To the wings of a plane

Uncontrollable grip

As before and again.

It's an ambient dream

Or ambiguous rule,

Semicircular stream

Of a graphite whirlpool.

Inspiration to drown

makes it easy to see

Disembodied touch-down

On a water-proof sea.


Come back home, little spy,

You're exhausted in this land.

Yellow amber, tiger's eye,

Silver bracelet on your hand.

No one needs you any more,

No one treats you like before.

Come back home, little tramp,

Restless crow quills on the way,

Through the summer, sweet and damp,

Through the winter, sleepy grey.

Seven circles, seven seas,

Copper tears of dusty trees.

I will rock you in my arms

To the sound of distant chimes,

I will kiss your waxy palms

And forgive you all your crimes.


To listen to its voice, to feel it.

The pupils of its eyes are floating freely

Through drowsy bluish ripples of the sun

With cool forbearance. It has always won

The game which we are desperate to win,

And plunging deeply down into its skin

We're aiming for its heart, a beam,

Inhaling lilac darkness of the stream,

To be dissolved and to be born afresh

Among the clots of seaweed in its flesh.