interior

Holes decorate the path, tiny drops
of polystyrene blowing tickets.

Little is luminous,
the dry is turned.

Lay aside the gods for a minute,
they've no price but may require it.

The end of the work song
burns itself, stained with open-ended nights.

Recycled sheen smells of the chemist’s lamp,
anaesthesia torn from the spine.

How an interior tears a door into words,
water drains inside a dream.

You must slip stealthily into the ventilator,
the market will be normal after that.

Comments

Popular Posts

vale Jackson Mac Low 1922-2004

Questions, but no answers: while editing a manuscript

questions, questions, questions - lyrically speaking