Looking up at a passenger plane crossing | a hot August sky | leaving twin trails of vapour | soundlessly || horizontal towers

<reading Verlaine, Fêtes galantes, humid July days, weekend, 2014>

Ivory to sorrow | your young fingers | light bones on heavy bones | at a corner, looking | into the garden | it concludes | with no conclusion

A genie with amber eyes | striated with flares of gold | vertical | pupils of a Siamese | stares incuriously | from the confines of her bottle | She knows | what she sees | is not real | or is only real | as she sees it | and so puffs instead upon a pipe | of silver with elegant filigree | of roses wreathing round and round | twirls gliding shapes of smoke | makes shadows on the peeling walls | and with a neat, petite illusion | completes the scene | blinks | turns half away | distracted by the muted sound | of halting music | foals’ | first | standing | Frowns | Notes almost come adrift | from the scaffold of any song | unwelcome | strangers in a distant scene | old masters, mistresses, innocent | children, victims | of tiresome schemes | the practice of her glorious magic | to defraud bankers | to steal from thieves | and all the forging brain must cast | upon a theatre of matter | glimmering actors | the whole | paraphernalia | of lutes and tenses | cloaks and miles | frigates, dreadnoughts, nets and ports | possesses the true weight | of things glimpsed in the dreams | of drowsy butterflies encased in black cocoons | slung twisting by a slender thread | from the moist | underside of dock leaves | sent to flip and swing | by the mere | grazing of a gardener’s gloves

Not mimicking, but building | a special form of nothing | representing | what does not exist | but causes pain | Tant pis | Sorry you were not | invited

Space chopped up and skewed around | in a month of wars

Jane works with her brush so fine | on a tiny canvas | with so much effort | to such little effect

Dull conjuration | of fire hydrants and blue awnings | Scuffing through page after page | browsing | a pastiche of thinking | what do I care | if your diamonds | are paste | or not?







Flight plan


from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)
(this poem, July 2014)