I have done, undone

Made and unmade

Seen, have I seen you?

While I scrambled for a form, to


My odd multitudes.

But you were a light laced nomad, and

In your wanderings you held me up,

Tried me on

And yet I

Long to serve and be served,

Swaddled from time and its thick hour flow,

Moved apart by your witnessing.

Always we are made and unmade

And unmade again.

You butter the toast.

I think on

The undressings

Stitched up longings taken out in the light,

Bluish planes of newt and bone

Soldered angles that messily break


I am walking again, at night, heel to toe.

The light throws on the wet cobbles and the lamps softly sag under the weight, perhaps, of time, plans laid, fashions come and gone. Steps natch up behind me, cheerful steps, and I hear the clattering strands of Italian tongue, the same old stories shared, soft rituals. Where did you go that day, and how, and how's your sisters dog. How's the wine, is the pinot light. Are you happy, am I.

The moon is at half phase, dusted over in cloud. A careless light is in the air. …

Image by Heike FrohnHoff via Pixabay

The autumn leaves drift by my chair,
Found at the charity store down the block.
They turn themselves out, curvy and thin,
As I flip through my rolodex
Of greying mise en scenes.

Your love was a warm thing,
Like hands on my back, to say
Go on, go up.
And still, an umbilical kind of clock
A petulant cough of the soul,
Says, we were spun the same.

Thrown about by the cartwheeling winds
Taking down safe kind smiles
Sung at by the oldest tides there are.
Pulled to give our breath,
To see the smallest hours

Above the…

Going Wading

Wade in the water.
I wade in up to my neck,
The cold collects round my feet, in my veins
Grabs at the pulse that thrums
for me and you

I almost hear your stare, your clenching hands,
I feel, you know, such love, you know.
Such tensing. In my throat, sitting on the clavicle.

But I want for your days to be roses, carnations,
Given out and opened to the sky,
Cornucopic views, and want for me
A muse, a delicate hand
Your muscle memory that I use.

And i offer,
A heart cleaved open.
Cleaved out, wandering…

Photograph of The Pass, Byron Bay taken by the Author, 2021. Used with permission.

The sea and sky fall
Shuffle their embraces close
The light is bold and the fluff of the waves
Is smiling with a warm and smirking sense
That oh, she is a baby still.
I walk out some small footsteps
Try to understand these always-blues
Always this land.
And my feet are

Beneath it

I try to clear from my mind
The worry, out, the bill for colours and whites
For time, lock it out,
Make a small home for the fact that I know
How to
Give, teach, to say, sit with
My fear and my love
Let the heart grow wide


The world is transience.
Live edges

Fingers trace its paths again and again,
Walking out a loving touch.

Asphalt put down over sacred grounds
Wide swathes of land and early age
Loves and lights,
Stained glass chapels, earthen arch,

things we put in the way.

The light is a shaft, weaving my hair
Centuries old, ancestral light that shined on the souls
Of this land’s people
First people.

Can we hold this truth of time.
To breathe in the days gone,

the memories young

clasped hands and rough made plans as the morning wakes.

Will it be
Stolen off…

Soul slams

I am blessed and cursed with a vibrating soul
That is loud, and flickers and ticks and
Slams the walls, shouts the rooves,
Hear, here
Me, me,

And speaks in warm timbre

Clamours to be known
Clamours to catch
The twisting sides of life,

Its sugar slick face
To taste, oh to taste

Diminutive desires.

But here’s the tail,

The contractions that kick,

Slam the chest.

As the light draws up the windows,

I wrap this all inside, again,
Some days

Find loosened breath
Wide empty sleep

And the little heart

In the alleys where silence is deep
Nameless things fill the thick air.

Where no questions are left

To wind dark thoughts upon,
The shivers will still reach me.

Melancholy no. 9

And we sit amongst our oceans
Our furious compassions
that the days will dam
And yet against our better judgement
We are want-y, feely

And we cannot dam the oceans
Those battened down blue hatches
With wavering screws

And the waters drip
And I reach, but i am
fill and brimming
These days
So I miss

And the great world spins,
And we dance on
Its latitudes
Shuffling the same

Sunrise, sunset, the fiends
of the mind, chasey games and straining round again
The mind trips.
But the ground won't give
Beneath my skin it's stillness
holds me in
And lets me up

And the axis tilts again.

Photo by Emma Trevisan via Unsplash.

A half

Is your whole


When you keep it clothed
In pretty pride, at times,
When you cannot bear it’s nakedness
Though I know

That we are one. Is it enough
When i send my rivers
To you, and
Your tributaries sit, thick with sticky
Mud, although you

Is it enough, I'm going,
I'm taking
Steps, to

When you wrap me up, I wonder if your
Eyes know that you wonder
What it's like
To love me
Harder, like an ocean dark
A waterfall. What it would be like
To gasp for air.

The driving force

It occurs, as I turn in the bed
As the threads paint themselves on me

That the curl of my toes
Is for you, by you and yet
They let me strike at the ground

As I span the wet morning alone

That the bends of my spine
Are in time for you, a lazy arc of the baton, and
Yet they groan and crack as I push
Creak up, draw up,

Out of the sea.

She’s a strong one, of good wood.

And my chest sits upon the home
Of curves we have made, flustered lovingly made

Bianca Black

The thoughts of a loveress of language and arts professional. Melbourne -> Byron Bay -> Adelaide, Australia.

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