Do you not season me?
You drank my wine,
I felt your rhythm
in blue furrowed night.
Do you not weather me
soft veil of Time?
You ticked my grimly hours
upon the winds.
Do you not question me
O endless Muse?
Your pleasure, Joy, the touch
absent to feel.
Do you not mark my tread
with your soft feet
or give your milk - white breast
when I am blind?
Do you not rescue me
from wasted words?
You had a keener sense
but stung my pulse,
you held your preying fingers
on my wrists,
they beat their tired ticks
for madmen's burns.
Your ghostly demarcation
saw my sin
lay buried when black, prying
backs were turned,
but in the moon of night,
the grave exhumed,
I stole back all the sin
that I could find.
Do you not know the blackness,
nor the blight?
Do you not know the poems
which have no words?
Do you not season me?
My shell- shocked time,
or make me slave the lines
that I must reach?
.................................................(1984; Sydney)
