Planes in the sky | stacking | climbing | descending | Airport | Chain-link fences | the sky so | pale and | fine and | beautiful | And all the gods and the dogs of | summer | hang their heads and are | bored ||  ||  || Planes in the sky, the hot summer, fire trucks on the ground | The runways ripple in the heat, baggage crews assemble for their shift, they will handle | the scent of cinnamon, Tracey’s V, the crumbling petals of an emperor’s lotus || City of souvenirs, on conveyor belts or carousels, the capsules of memory are gathered for a few minutes before beginning their long journeys of dispersal

He felt his life was disintegrating | Every morning he woke with a feeling of something banal and yet ominous – which, he realised, was his own heart – and with the kind of sensations you might feel as, after a left turn, it dawns on you that you are driving | the wrong way down a one-way street

 

 


from Semapolis | City of Signs
(series of poems, unfinished, 2012–present)

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