She’s a last summer girl | walks slowly through the fountains | Small whorls | of liquorice and CK One | pulse holding | the darkness together | Imprint fading | They are setting | other agendas | and now it’s a new spring | she’s a last summer girl

Pockets of memory | Small water | hidden in green | dens | a perpetual | subdued | fricative | as the translucence | oozes | She lives there | where the moisture | collects and | drips and spills | in quiet measures | No one much | notices her | She may turn into a deer | or volcano | what will they care? | She’s a last summer girl | and they are following | different agendas | glancing across | humid carriages at | the freshest of strangers

Dart

into the sun again | for a few | quizzical instants | He turns half asleep | but half awake, too | She flits through his head | that room with Taiwan and | subdued summer light, the evening | ready to give birth, but | immensely calm | and she | is part of that calm | heroic | quite still | staring vacantly | at some app on her phone | So serene | the gods emerge from the trees | no need to hide now | He wonders | what will knock | from under the floor or | out of the lisping tap | to start the world | being wrong again?

Steam on a mirror | shaped like Africa | Extinct species | walk with her | The lithest of spectres | she still has her keys | but the doors have vanished | They | fan themselves | in parked cars | restaurants with | inadequate AC | 90° | F | He | adores this heat | his lover | centres July | The years | keep no establishment | She | is lateral to us | fragile | a cat’s | footprints | in snow

leading… | ? |

Pulse holding | the room together | Melange of stuff | Typed up | much later | inevitably | a précis | Her edition | already out of print | They | have other parties | other causes | other worries | She is a Space Age | These new dates | are not for her | She must make do with scrapings | filaments of copper | electricians have left | near the skirting | in an unoccupied house | and blebs of solder | plumbers fired | with blow torches, the flames | were kingfisher blue | and utterly real | like everything | that summer | that last | unremitting summer | when they were young and | all of them knew her…

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)

 

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