Smoke question, drifting? | Tying and untying, in the distance, the house on fire, in the foreground, a fireman lying in a meadow, half asleep

Tying up the clouds to rain? | Dusk in summer, the girls draped over sofas, beds, lying on the floor, eased with cushions | all the baby sparks | want to be fire

Undoing? | Lips pout | long hair spills down and fans around, spools and coils | migraines, periods, apricots | wax polish on the gleaming floor | gives off a mausoleum odour | mixed with the overly | formal perfume | from cut flowers | storm light | small set of | bones, a child who | died in a chimney

Smoke question, drifting? | The policemen are buying gum and pop | from the kiosk | The rapists | creep by in a crowd | their masks on, in night-gowns | at twelve, they brush their hair and croon | lullabies their mothers sang them

Drifting, undoing? | The light of the storm is unearthly, the girls | rest among velvet, sit back | against the piano | they are not | educated, they do not | know the character of Ophelia | when the rain falls and runs | down the glass of the French doors | the room is like the bed | of a disturbed river | A boy | arrives to sulk and gaze | morosely into the sodden countryside | Out there | rooks, fences, horses | all drift | to and fro | like objects moving | with the tide | undone | from the music | The summer is | stuffed with autumn | the girls | wait for a crime to be committed, the boy | wants to be a writer, but is too | intelligent

Tying up the clouds to storms? | The interiority | of the room | increases | The girls | plunged in the ravines | of their skulls | their moods | like forests | lush, and trackless | the boy | half asleep | lounges on the floor | a copy of a classic | poet of that province | open by his ageless head | a slender knife | of pure silver | on a white plate | on the dark floorboards | beside him | A girl | wants to be better | A girl | would rather be | a dog | A girl | plays languid nocturnes | on the piano | Their silk | scrunches and hushes | whistles and scrawls | as they move around | in long party dresses | one raspberry | one scarlet | one bronze | On the cusp | of all sleep | rest the rippled | pools of their fingertips | The boy’s | story ends | not where the novel ends | and vice | versa | The glaciers | retreat and the ship | goes down | The music | stops | When the crime comes, will it | be enough for them?

 


from the series bliss point | angels of disorder
(open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem: June, 2014)

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