‘in the mouths of my child
fragments of my beginning, my end’

how simple to make a desert out of gain⎯

on the open market, languages as clearfells
the forests dying like consonants:

‘my tongue is a root
the animal snuffling at me is you!’
⎯wanhal yenbena,ix  ‘where are the people?’
believe dust when it embraces you!

the swirling welcome-kiss
which becomes a mourning dance

when the cord is snapped⎯
mother-of-the-evening, stem-mother

phrases of choice haunt our silences
like tendrils clambering for air

amid the sexy cons, the sweet-talking
corporates, the jilting parliaments

⎯for how long can sleep rekindle
us?

                                                       ⎯kalyuyurux
                                                       dream’s glimmer forms
returning, again, again

to a birthing ground
whose voices

                                    shimmer
                                                                like new rain