In the beginning was the snow | And the footfalls through the snow | appear soon after | Perhaps to a blue room with white skirting | duck-egg blue and | matrimonial | white, perhaps | to a happy moment or two | a distillery | of dust | moon in balance with sun | Nothing major | no revelation or | the sweet consummation of | crossed swords | no Hanged Man or Complete Physics | just heartbeats at a steady rate | sturdy | without show | all you need as you are | ready for a long ride | On these kinds of nights | the guitarists fall in love | and word soon gets around | until a crowd | great as the music | gathers | hoping | to hear them play

Who has the keys to the road? | Theorised | trees | exacted to bare January delicacy | the snow | a mush of bleaching | Seville oranges | under sodium streetlamps | Stripped down | to one set of footprints | Feel the mass | evaporate | gross | is the angel’s share | Left only with it all | hurrying to a room of | sparse | white and blue | to plot with her | tonight’s | new shape for the world | Outside | the Dynamos are playing | and the road | is closing a thousand doors | houses dim | curtains drawn | time moves on | until, at last, a hush comes in | even at the hearts of the atoms | the lights go down | ladies stop waving their fans | gloves and programmes are folded || and through the dark | I hurry home from | sword school | we lie still | in each other’s arms | quiet | fragile as unhatched eggs | as forming and as melting | ice | the way words always are | in the beginning

 


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