He has evacuated his suit | left his hat on a table | all that is left of him | is a cone of golden dust

The dust knows | if a janitor or a | policeman | a neighbour | a gardener | were to open one of the windows | into this quiet room | the wind would have to grow mouths | at some point | the dust knows | the mouths would begin | to eat him away

<a great fear | May, 2014 | clouds and lungs>

Touch | very gently | nearby | objects | A phone | computer keyboard | empty cardboard | box | his own face | Revere them for their lasting | a mute | humility of matter

Left his gloves in the hall | coat on the bannister | his “effects” | “possessions”

Nude | she gazes at the cone | of golden dust | Emergency | services | paramedics with megaphones | firemen with axes | hail her | she understands | the routines of disaster | she doesn’t | wait long | to find his misplaced | cigarette lighter | leaves it and runs | out into the weird | jubilation of the sirens and the jewellers with their | elegant stores | the libraries of teak and oak | vellum | script | gilt | of ink and | sundry other forms of | treasure

The wind | has no taste for parables | SYMBOLS | icons | metaphors

The cone of dust | breathes very, very lightly | as all things breathe | an oxygen of absence | of connected | vanishings | all eyes on the lovely teardrop | carved and shone | none on the curled | shavings of silver

A passing | lover | sniffs the air | in the empty room | a certain staleness | odour of grief | of fading | She tuts | and opens a stiff | window

Outside, a noise of traffic | drifts closer | At dusk | honeysuckle will begin to | issue its essence, a stealth | of sweetness | and she will forget | about the opened window | the dark blue suit | sloughed casually off | beside a quarter | of the bedside | she will remember him | and the wind | will grow mouths

 

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)