I feel like a piece of steel — maybe
a railway track, laid out, for travelling.
I feel like a well of deep water
dangerously cold — liquid.
I feel as if I could love — someone or something —
like a living arc of burnished gold (or a rainbow).
I could let go and love like the very devil.
I'm a doona stuffed with rose petals —
lightweight, mettlesome and fragrant.
I speak all tongues: I could be of some use.
I am in the very centre of the paradox — I am huge
and without having to think of it — I am minute.
This is a renaissance: this is the beginning of my life.
I am on fire with that first simple flame of birth —
air incinerating skin, helpless limbs and lolling head.
Myths and icons sloughed, orphaned at last,
I have no opinion worth having,
coming into that kingdom of wanting nothing —
waterproofed, created, solidified.
I'm at that time of life (not 40 any more) when I am starting to think about putting together a Selected. So for the first time for a long time I am going back to old books. Seeing if I still like anything I wrote so long ago. This one, for instance, I wrote 25 years ago! And I do still like it, so hot damn! I was googling to see if I could find an image of the book cover, and it is surprising how many second hand copies are available out on the intertubes. (But pricey, what with postage, very pricey.) I did spot one copy being sold in the UK that has an inscription to the previous owner! Who can that be? Who did I post an inscribed copy to, or who travelled to England and took the book with them? I am consumed with curiosity and if only it was a tiny bit cheaper I would invest in it just to find out whom!