Compression of bees,
shrub-shaped, in proton loops,
on cushioned air. Spring!
See the counter, its bright ticking
with fail-safe growth. Who put
it there? this tubular, tight package,
green and red wires running to
hidden terminals - watch the numerals
flick over, air fill with warmth,
this thing ready to go off at a season’s
notice, a bursting forth, flash
of filmic green and bloom
too quick to catch as we exit our
buildings in a rush to see it.

Scent makes the air visible,
seasonal; autumn lays its long
scaffolding of shadow under wood
smoke; winter smells of damp
brickwork; spring lifts the lid on
lighter smells - is something
between cleaning fluids or garden.
Only late at night true secrets
and scents are disclosed; summer
tightens. Scent is a map of an
ancient journey. The poem prints -
makes a seal of every season,
its message delivered and read.

An Actual Encounter With The Sun On My Balcony At France Street
        ( for Gloria Schwartz )
When the moon slipped its knot and left a ring for the night to drop
through, and a baggage of stars thudded on the loading bay at the other
side of the world, I heard, “Ho! get up you slack-arse poet, I want to have a word with you.” It was the sun.
“This is a surprise,” I yawned.
“Shouldn’t be - you’re the one whose been whingeing about his own personal light.”
“I must admit,” I conceded, “I was worried there for a bit.”
“Right,” answered the sun. He spat at the window turning it molten.
“You must know by now Stephen, I visit with a poet every thirty years or so. Last time it was Frank O’Hara, 

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