You have some emptiness now, which means space, time for the lost things maybe to | show you their ghosts

And the shadows of the big things, swept away, allow for a bareness of breath and more bareness under the breath, behind the breath, and of course room for the light to fall, enabling the shy, small things | to emerge and to | lie, shivering, awaiting the mercy of your eyes

I claim my spirit back, after the house is washed away, and the luxury of meanings is dispersed | It feels like a good time to begin the task of designing new meanings, fresh orders of being alive, as cool waves | break and shatter their foams on the uncomplaining coast

As the noise of excess is forcibly stripped back, our normality punished | we find ourselves with fewer things but those fewer things accrete greater value, like moments with those we know are dying but love, and the items that happen to drift | into our connection, often | they feel so welcome

All are calling in voices borne to be lost, but we have more emptiness now, permitting us sightlines of dazzling velocity, as | unimpeded | our views rush to their consummation, the vanishing point we | carry around with us always, each one different, none of them | ever quite reached

and we see how delicately the products of our voices | unfurl | their leaves and blossoms

Gently, the ghosts part and give way, and we are moved to watch | in the vast and spacious arena of the years | our children taking into their eyes | cities invisible to us | but also | so many tiny things, perhaps they will notice | where we did not?

Persuaded by upheaval, the more collapses into less | the many narrow into few | I ask them to | take back my ticket to a thousand illusions, I find | I remember you, and | hand in my ghost coat, shivering | and walk out, into a night so broken, all it can do | is to begin to grow

The fields were wreckage, and the skyline, too | and memories only a form of debris | With the way back denied us | for a little while, we were dumbfounded | forced to negotiate with ancient fires | to go on foot where we had no cars | to offer the wild herds of stars | the open range of our gaze | to gallop through and not acknowledge us in their passing | as regal as indifferent

Sometimes we build by mourning, and sometimes what we call ‘recovery’ recovers | not what was lost, but what | awaits us | that most enigmatic and unexpected place: | a future

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

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