It was just knowledge, anyone | could have learned these things | They weren’t important

Followed the stream for a while | Under the trees, I think they were alders | they led to my death | like the other things | Not one of their lichens | was accessible | their strange-fangled | blotches | colours like new | pussy willow in spring | purpose | impossible to say

It was just ratios and Aristotle | metaphysics and drag, anyone | could have understood those things | and the sun and the moon of last July had | lost their fuses | They just led to the same places?

They just led to the same places, no | secret side to show, no | keel to them, no | shell lipped out by the slow share into | plough earth and the brooding sun

You noticed his upper lip by the violet and lilac | flare of the moment, you held his hand | It led to my death, like the other things | all of them | tilted up on the board and sliding | the trains, the girls, the words | objects and expressions | fireworks and expressions | the stuffed-in | puffball of grief with its | smoke of spores | how the sea’s hands are not like | human hands at all | their grip | with a stench of Jurassic and shark | and cold and teeming | life

You remember the bridges of your childhood? | Conkers and blood and pen-knifes | Orion and Samedi, such an immense | clutter and critter, creep and crack | of stuff (and shift, and crawl) | sharp | upheaval of splinters where the millipede | unwinds her piece of clock and makes it | run / all of these things of my life, each with their swerve, each with their obdurate, cantankerous | mood | and the beautiful | written stillness under the trees | maybe alders, maybe | ash?…

It was just Cameron, just Mao Zedong, they were just | leaders, anyone | could have followed them | They weren’t important

Down the red | throat of the funnel | poured the ticks and the tacks | the lost and the found sensations, lost | sensations, the memories | of the kisses dripped and spattered, the memories | lost | dried up their kernels | stiff and crooked | it wasn’t just | Argentina or scuba, not anyone | could have known these things


No one | could have known these things

It was a fine ship, built for sinking | it leaned and rolled, and the sailors | cried for the shore, they were just | passengers, after all, they didn’t | matter

Down the black | funnel of an eye | of a nerve | of a sentence, too | you poured | the ferocious waves | and their | thrust and hanging | foam | glittering as it falls into | the well, their hands | hold hard but | when they let go, oh!, that is the | thing | their torque and wrench, the flipping | to and fro | their drench and sputter, gulch and plunge and | flicker | such cool and teeming | death | lit with granules of salt and shattered | fragments of crates once used | to package peaches

They were just poems, anyone | could have read them, they weren’t | important

Not by the lamplight, not by the moonlight, not by the morning | light of a Parisian sun | Lay beside you for a while | no longer expecting | results or deals | your slender fingers | reached across Verlaine, stroked the paths of | Machado | the wheat fields too | rich for reaping, the | sailors | waving from the side, and their ships | so smooth upon the water, and, after all | there are days when it is | too foolish to set out | on the superfluous | gesture of a journey, there are | days when | to complete by moving is | a kind of sin…

By the lamplight, by the moonlight, by the morning | light of a sun of Madrid | Carried our bags on board | found our seats on the train | Around us the world was swirling | What choice did we have? | We couldn’t have | followed the others | This was our way | and the fruit | severed into new segments | fell and was filtered, even | lying still, we drifted | and the pips | spat out arced a juice and | gleam of detail | hinting at the | haunting of kisses | each one | dipped in the | purse with | black lining, each one | the motion of a separate story

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