I
at the top of the hill
the burnt hull of a boat
lifted here for us to see
what might be preserved
below, they load containers
onto working ships.
I sit to read your poems
in large Georgia type
of your desire to stand
in a slim space of myth.
I appreciate them more
above the harbour world
like you, friend, content
to talk through the veil.
II
a fine roughness, the cover
excites my fingertips
the cloth dirtied in places
by love’s oily hands.
no wider than a finger
the spine, which arches
towards the poems, bound
in wisdom and rhyme.
I fold the cover back
and press a thumb
deep into the density of pages,
parting near the middle
to read again the words
which brings us to this line.
