I kept a person in a bag | I took them out, then put them back | when I was finished with them | then put the bag | in the hall or in the wardrobe near my bed, or sometimes | the garage | Holes | in my memory | now | more regularly appear | and often I do not know how | I went from A to Z | whole clumps of letters seem to drop away | sometimes I find myself at Y, but am not | sure where | that is | Busy, busy, such a busy life I lead | it was nice to keep the person in the bag, to have them | there when I needed them | and zipped up tight when the need was past | And years passed | I no longer took out the person quite so often | and sometimes left the bag | in a locker at the gym or | even at the boathouse, or the basement room | but I was always very careful | to put the person back | in the bag before the zip was closed | Around me, tremendous changes came | hurricanes and entire neighbourhoods | cleared and re-developed | my nerves | treed off into silver or to brown veins | or inhuman green | reaches of the Amazon | What was the person’s name? | And their voice? | There was bracken and heather and a sound of pipes | I had in mind | Donegal or Zummerzet | perhaps mist-wet fleece of the Shetland Isles? | There was no | help for it | I needed to ask the person, but when | I opened the bag, they had gone | Surely, surely, the Shetland Isles? | I was called back to life at once | I used the bag for something else

 


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