They come and they go, people

They are complex objects | arrangements | of belovéd signs, places | we adore or wish to | forget

Atoms | compose them, they are | strung out into the past, the | playground, the family pet | the sound of | fallen leaves and shreds of | bark from a gum tree | scratching on the stone | slabs of the | back yard

intense | personal things, or so | they seem

cannot hold on to their own | shape, the same | ankles

They change with the light, they age, they each | must make their particular | assignations in time and this | essentially absorbs | all of their lives, although they | call it by different names

They have seen | at low tide | the little iridescent | emerald-clawed | crabs twinkling across the muddy | banks under | mangrove trees, they have | conjured angels from | desire, and sometimes those angels | might be crows | in a withered | pine | or firemen in yellow coats with | silver reflective strips | messengers and saviours under the | surface | threading the | banal with the | divine | fabricating | a house with | foundations of | moving | flames

No person ever | quite | reaches another, that is | written in the law of caresses and inscribed in the furling privacy | of our so- | sensitive skin, the recesses of | thoughts and the | presence of the tiny but | inescapable | moment inside us and all | things


come and go, they | make plans and | speculate | make love and | groan, kick and | sigh | their bodies | are sources of anguish and bliss, forms of | impediment and liberation | wrack and litter and emptiness

There are holes in people everywhere | absences | of thought | forms | of enquiry or | loss, places | the memories shine through and sometimes | burn

People are | often confused | They have all sorts of ways of dealing with | light, most of all, though | by moving on and | forgetting

They are curious, but they are not sure, really, why they are curious | It is just | a way the sun sets, how | the shadows extend along the beach or the filling station’s | forecourt | the way the plane crashes and scatters its debris for miles | the mute | soft | bulk of a foot | the taste of her skin | the pattern the words | leave behind as they are | abandoned

People start | inside us | and grow | necessary | but do we ever | know what they are, these | people?

Or what they want? Or where | they think | they are going?

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