south
sand like snakes
runs to the end of the world
long braided rivers of grit
fly a hair’s breadth above the packed shore
desperate to hurl every grain
into the insistent southern ocean
the greenstone sea claws at each stream
turns it under pulls it out deep
toward the aching cold white
where ice and pole call
in a shrill whine
that won’t be denied
Owen took this photo.
royal (albatross)
through the whirl of white-bodied
red-legged foul-mouthed retching gulls
she wheels on impossibly long thin
elegant angular
tapered black-and-white wings
her dark eye unfazed by either
the mob of petty gulls
or the gasping people
dodging guano bombs below
and with her sweeping circuits comes
a silence seen (not heard)
a stillness felt
in the presence of grace
Kiwi in Disguise
in New Zealand
I try not to speak
each syllable gives me away as other
my fat flat short American a’s
broadcast my origin
I’ve read so many books by (to me) foreigners
mentioning that abrasive American honk
our loud crass obnoxious accent
I try to turn mine off
order tomahtoe sauce instead of ketchup
speak of rubbish bins instead of trash cans
ask if someone is in the queue not line
get directions for the toilet not bathroom
take the lift not elevator
go to the car park not parking lot
am tempted to just talk like the locals
lips stretched out into a thin line
talking about those swimming shelled reptiles:
turdles don’t have any ees
but I will never add up
to more than a Kiwi in disguise
