December and the squeeze of family
         berating me for my endeavours. I am a foolish boy,
         too filled with hormones and joie de vivre
                       to ever make sense of obligation.

Why do you say I dream too much?
Surely, this is all we are: dried blood upon footsteps
                       scarpering up the shelves of Tongariro.
         You remember how it took four hours to get up,
         and only two to get down. You remember how breathlessly
                      bored I was, awaiting the rest of our party.
         There I was, a wasp, a termite, a disbelieving stranger
         amongst tourists. There I was, afraid
                       to go home.

It's December and I am in flux. In January, it will be
                        much the same. In February, I could be in Fiji,
          notwithstanding the political mess between our two countries.
Here is where my home is: between bulb and stamen
and freshly turned earth. Here is where my heart is:
                        between wave and fin and underwater infernos.
          Here is where I start to believe
          in playing this game. Here is kauri and moss
                        and the stretched canvas
                        of forgotten oblivion.