In one of these wilder countries
of rattlesnakes and whitetail
where boyscouts catch fish and make things and sail
you’ll settle
a paper napkin
brushed from the table and falling
(slowly) to the unseen floor
on the outskirts;
close enough to real life
like seeing through TV
it's convenient, flatpacked
in doses: 6l, 2.4mg, half a pack
vitamins, betablockers, paracetamol, milk;
screensavers of the sea, dotted with clickable sailboats,
substitutes.
There,
your blood will turn
or might as well turn slowly black,
semi-hard, glistening like tar
just laid.
Wednesday 21 April 2010
Outskirter
Monday 12 April 2010
She Moves Through Light In The Evening
I
It always starts with light, falling
in this case through a car window
as streetlights pass.
It is soft at first, cinematic.
The yellow bleeds out to dissipate
at the fringes.
The zoetrope-like slits falling
across the seated body undressing
the dark that veils
create the vague illusion of her
moving, looming inside each
regular absence.
II
Things soon come undone, fall
apart; she starts to move through
the untangling
towards the foreground.
Other thoughts appear: Indian ink on
unhung canvasses.
And questions too:
does she think like this? has she
watched the light fall across her body
and tried to make sense of this?
did the same light touch her
when she passed this way?
all seen as now,
in the fullest flood,
in the buzzing synapses,
in the blood
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