Authentic Nature

A long shadow passes

       over the garden. Yesterday

I buried the bones, feathers and skulls

                  of two magpies fallen

       from a nest during storms,

each bundle like coal,

       a plain music of repair.

Something about the gesture

      troubles me. Authenticity

       comes at a price it seems –

neo-con cons make truth a panacea

       for ego while nature becomes

a cipher for speak-easy

                  consumption tactics.

       When Celan met Heidegger

a silent forest began to grow,

       apprehension flowering between

the mortal business of politics

      and a star above the well.

       Those who talk of genius

are those who most suspect it.

       Some kind of transplanted integrity

has taken place, the words

      and rhymes of older empires

       fraying under eucalypts

and fruitless in a country

       such as this. Here I dig

for a different language,

      a new balm for the bruise

       of lost opportunities

and a way to resolve a parallax

       even as I recite the lessons

of an unlevelled meeting –

      arnica, eyebright,

       the obvious humidity.

Originally published in First Light, by Giramondo Press.