The pile goes down;A bristling caterpillar;A hostile cocoon;A wooden wall of bric-a-brac: Fence panels and trees that fellLike bodies — wracked by storms, Cut by teeth, stacked by folk, My band, my people. Touching scars, our gloves became sopsFor sap and the memory of blossom…Swings… cooking apples… birds…Seasons of migration… All fuel for fire. I …
Where do I situate myselfIn this shining tableau of loveThat has Psyche sighting Eros,Her bedfellow?In that hinge of wing, the fleeing alulaFlinching from oil, Scouring specks that leaptFrom a lantern with a yawning well. What more may fall? Who may tell? I wonderIf the other half is yours. The revealing light. The stripping bare. The …
There’ll come a yearwhen I do not seeants up on the mortar,or leaves gracing the trees.Not ripples. Not sprays of water. Goggles get torn off,leaving greasy smearsof folk, suspendedin wheezing chemical baths(my eyes). I’ll sit pool-side. Let old sun bake my back.As bricks give up their heat,I’ll give up mine(and other fine insect pleasures). And …
A ticking watchAt 20 feet. A bead of perfumeIn a honeymoon suite. An insect wing,Against your cheek. A candle,One town over.
Canary Wharf persuades youPeople can get busy in all directions,But the woman cramming bagels,Wedging salt beef between gherkins,She points directly – right through.
The news is of tunnels.Rabbits burrow through walls.In my bedroom, they recur like dreams.There are many, so many.Something’s wrong with their bellies.Whole warrens are swollen and sore.You’ve seen them on maps (nests clumped in dim corners),In photographs (eyes limned with debris,Plastered with ears and daring assistance).Their heart is a home is a hole.
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We were queuing in BerlinWhen Tom explained the senses:Waves, beams and vibrations,The pin-holes of the eyes. “That’s one interpretation.”In a courtyard, we were waiting,Entering gallery spaces,A nerve-bundle at a time. Then framed before Athena,We quailed before Athena,Thoughts stirring in the oils,Oils dancing though bone dry. Two to make a painting.One more again to tango.And all …
I. Earth’s crown cracks a chasmThrough thunderhead stolid as marbleAnd inflamed fissures glow to fracture‘til anger dies – wretched, self-devoured Such a nightThat the billows bellow bloody murderAnd the sleet sheers through the makeup of a foolLifting layers of grief from twinned, unfathomed poolsThat reflect the insatiate sheets of fire Here the orison of the …
Lunging forward, knuckles ‘gainst the greenTed demonstrates the knack Bending to the gravity of desire,Consciousness flung just shy of the jack. Downstream: small white andLarge black knock and clack.
