Paper cities are burning, you bring the fire yet do not feel the heat: our city stands, not yet a paper city.

Pleasure barges and speedboats, yachts and oil tankers, on the black currents of type all sway to the tides and the signs mourn their own beautiful simplicity.

We are more complex as our powers of solidarity wane, and the battles grow digital and thus may be switched off or put to sleep until the morning.

Love, that most harassed of signs, at once reinforces and undermines our complicity in acts of breaking up and walking away, not seeing, finding ourselves unable to care.

It is a puzzle that grows more pieces, a desire outstripping our will: we wish to value each other highly, yet our principle means of contact is commerce, and this process bends away like a river, and forks into such intricate deltas, we set out each morning yet never return, the water is lit to solder and strikes of silver, losing us in its adventure, victims of episodes and anecdotes, lacking a comprehensive theme.

As we go deeper into the mine in search of wealth so it takes longer to return to the surface where we seek to afford the air and shelter.

By artificial light we see all things, and natural light becomes almost a legend to us, who toil to survive and for whom the leisure of the sun is a luxury.

In the gardens of the master’s house, the light is too bright and the poverty of the hours grows onerous for those who own time and yet can find no use for it.

The old poet has become an embarrassment, filling his pockets with sugar lumps and drinking leftovers, haunting a café in which he no longer recognises a single tune, disowning the words he once wrote to tie a war to his own mouth, and to tie his mouth against yours. Bards are passé, and the leopards hunt, still, if they are permitted, so… who cares?…

I fold up a burning city and walk through my city.

So I rent the sun and wonder how much it will cost for an hour of the moon.



from the series Silver of the mine of gold (open-ended: 2013–present)