The Persistent Levitator Poem by Bernadette Hall

There are too many words
like in a Russian novel

& easy to lose
the first ecstatic jolt

I trace with my finger
the fireline of the volcano

I am undermined by your sweetness

*

The women are rising up
& down the coast from Kaikoura

spinning
like turnips
out over the sea
The sun glints
off the steel caps of their boots

They are happy

*

Needing a word
for the little jumps
on the surface of things

(that certain
blurring of the edges
like the sea's turning-back
or the gulls hitched up on elastic)

I'm still hanging around
My sleeves ripple like flags