Jesus on the cross as upraised arms
Of young Brisbane Box, his face
A two-tone knot caught in bark,
The root mound damp from quick rain.
Press her tall to his arms, her arms,
Unspent carnal prodigal
As slow flesh yields to bark hard flesh –
One tree of still waking heat life.
Still, not still, words biting the magic:
The tree is here, silent and Jesus,
So is she, nailed happy to my cross.
I take it off now, let humid carry it,
And she yields to me yielding –
Unwavering waverer, solemn silly boy.
Late summer autumn not a fling yet
Fling carousing in the still breeze by being still,
Holding an apple gap before the kiss –
Pink lady and granny smith – and she doesn't
Talk with her mouth but with unmoving lips,
That might yield but not yet for first they kiss
The warm heat, the missing apple, the space
In the warm place that is vacant, holding
The sun, tree Jesus, her and me
In a damp stillness. I could not kiss her
Forever, even the breeze might stop
If I hold still and the sparkle never leaves
Her eyes. Can the sky blue see her sparkle
If she's looking at me, does the sky care
Or is it only blue because she is here, laughing?
Cross it now: half an apple, core and pips thin,
Now just the skin – pink, green and gone.
I'm fell and fallow for her push but
Now I live with Jesus and this kiss and
The feeling of her smile pushing tree life,
And the long ephemeral embrace
Into my mouth, and me.