a small disturbance

on the periphery of perception
you detect a quiver of luminosity
an almost-image
a rumoured moon

it is not an optical illusion

nor a noiseworm
boring a loop of jangle
through your cochlea

nor an intimation
of imminent derangement

what would you give to shake it loose
dispense with its theories of attachment

its persistence is exemplary

on starched cotton mornings
in the velvet dusk

when you scale the cliff of wakefulness
or plunge into the tepid depths of sleep

there it is
a small disturbance
ineluctable

no need to ask what it means

think of the hummingbird
with hectic wingbeats
siphoning sweetness from bougainvillea

or the dark star of a hawk
hanging above the high road
where the soldiers man the blockade

under the tongue

a bone a small bone
perhaps from the trout
in that harbourfront cafe
where glass moons swung
amongst the loose hair of trees

the tide licked the shingle
there was the night
and what might come of it

the bone is eyelash thin
a flexible parabola

it lodges under the tongue
in a membranaceous cavern
or the fleshy curtain
of the soft palate

it will not cause choking or septicaemia
though possibly a localised inflammation

it will hardly ever spoil your appetite

you have learned to live
with the persistent irritant
the bone has become