We fall, for a while, into the sumptuous ravines | our bodies make for us

What can we find here? | These | small pots of stinks | slumps | sleep at the weekend | a flowering fetor, disturbed to ripples | in ancient waters, bees, and lotus blossoms, and snakes

Other things, too, pedestrian things: paper clips | new apps | desks | a whole tangle of debris the ordered | storm of our lives | assembles in heaps of rooms, in an emergency, patiently compiles | in dunes of beds, glances

Such things | Enough? | Enough | of… what? | What could “enough” | mean in that darkness?

If we were to look, if looking | were the right thing | look deeper | look for longer | what else might we find | when we fall | into the sumptuous | ravines our bodies | make of us? | Is there anything else, at all | rolling in this languid surf? | changing channels, not caring for much?

Will we find, in these ravines, our own bodies? | Like the remains of famous climbers | Alpine mountaineers lost | decades ago? | idolised in black and white, in ski clubs, certain tweeds?

But, no, the body cannot be | found | not today | the skull isn’t | where we left it | though there are ants | crawling over the teeth | bluebells | picking through | the white bones of the hands

Or thoughts? | Will we find thoughts?

Like rare

starfish crawling on the floors of lucid pools | among the rocks, while the main | effort of the ocean is far off, hunting, high and low, for a trophy | of honey, drawn | from the very | tips of our fingers?

What can we find here? Old things, or modern things? Only | familiar things — grazed knuckles, dates | crossed out in our diaries?

A dusty | library of caresses? | Texts for fiends, aficionados?

Whatever || We let ourselves | find very little | We are not young, after all | We are full of knowledge, that | weary | error | that excuse we give | for life, that | translucent leech, so and | so | such, and | such…

Tomorrow, with its uses | Tomorrow, with its uses

Through the curtains, dead still in the night, come | the sounds of ships, their horns | from the Straits | and the sea | reaches into us, thirsting | for that dark, pointless nectar | only we | produce…

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