She’s my | CYCLING THROUGH THE FAIRGROUND AT NIGHT | own heart, I never | ECHO | get too far from her, lying | in the grass | FLOODLIT EMPTY RIDES | and all my veins seem to lead | round to her, though we’re not | lovers || Put the sky | down a moment | PICK UP a sound | someone else left | behind || Voices, crying or laughing | Leaving a trail of | PISTACHIOs | the stars and their | empty shells | Keeping, for a minute | GHOSTS OF THRILLS | pace with each other | And when I think of | someone I need to | talk to | it’s you and I | give you the train journey in the night, the one I found | under the trees || Isn’t that how | everything happens?

She took a train journey | In a poem, under a | SEA | she saw | the bones of dead mermen and mermaids | entwined and the long, languorous fronds of seaweed | PASSING ON INFO | floated to Florence || Copper green | and water in bronze | RINGTONES and | sometimes my blood is a haze of milky diamonds and | LEAVE A MESSAGE | In a cup her lover | sips | gold from Ghana || When we were younger, and she and I were close | RIOT POLICE AND TEAR-GAS | FACTORS | It is the | information | we pass on | We never quite | understood | FLIPPED | one pole to another | DUAL TEXTS, the present rendered / into the past, and VICE VERSA | How memories | fired and fade | FADE and fire | In a place my blood is | lincoln green and cat’s cream whispers, and I can’t quite | remember how that | RIDE | went, but | glimpse you across the room and feel | the translation by time | leaves | much | to be | desired…

 


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