Believing the day back into roses | a carafe of water | like a pinch of Degas or Sisley | but is it ours, do we deserve it? | Believing my name, Michael, comes back to me | and I go towards my name | these are Michael’s hands | Michael’s words | for a few moments, he is strung upon them | as beads strung on a wire | then there is oxygen | the dachshund barking | the phantom moraine of the remainder | the Alps, the compasses | the forgotten keys | the locked doors | the tomorrows | the yesterdays

Believing things | into the shape | we suppose | is theirs | Knowing our way around the philosophy | the software | the drainage | system | Putting our faith in the others | the ones guarding the maps | the definitions | they will keep Paris safe for us | they will explain the cirrus | the Caucasus | the circus and cicadas | we trust the others to watch | over the genial | prisoners of fact | decision | place | status | time | etcetera, etcetera | So we can start the narrative | commence it with waking | I can use my doubts | my scepticism | to fend off what you do to me | what | you want of me and I can’t give | though I pretend | I am | giving | And by many small steps of mistrust and fear | I can make my journey | into the drab | glaciers and the plains of ice | the gradual | death from cold | the cypher’s position | in the futile bureaucracy | control/alt/command | the water-cooler affairs | the back slash | undo undo undo | I heard that, later, David | wept over Goliath | years later, I mean | grieved over that great, stupid corpse | and the head dragged through the dirt | a head so bulky and heavy | it was half David’s height, and the same weight as him | David | missed that Philistine, and, perhaps | the moment of killing | and in his dreams | hauled that head by the hair | through the dirt | manhandled the head | somehow | scraped and bumping | along the ground | over and over again | and when David wakes, each day, he wakes | to the gross volume of emptiness | in his arms | the hunk of vacuum | he could hardly | move | that massive head | only a few | minutes before | flaming with pride and blasphemy | stories of mothers and weapons | dawn over the Valley of Elah | sparrows and buntings in the terebinth trees | his body worked out in the morning | the flutter and bustle | of his immortal living | the continual | fizz and mutter and hum | inside his high skull | and on his skin | as he rested, and closed his eyes | the good feel of the sun


from the series fp2 (on-going sequence of poems, commenced 2016)