Lost touch | | The folders and the files | made of stone | water | lisping from a hero’s mouth | the space | rendered solid | the distance | frozen in blocks | like ice, but warm… | | or warmer, in May | | with young green | | Cast house | | sound on the bare stairs | the carpet lifted | paint | | spatters on the floorboards | and the stereo | | pigeons | |
descending | | the ghost with no shoes | | the way back lost, but the way there | never-ending
couldn’t drag me | away… | Pausing | | looking up | | waiting for the other
Extruded silence | | Drop | | Coming home | | Bumping into | the lodger
Ferns | out of the enamel | | Across the wire | the fox-shit and dragonflies | | and in feathers’ | tornado angel | turning | | through the twisting snow | the echo | the wild horses
•
from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)
(this poem, January 2017)
hypergram 