it is the centre of a word
that is unimaginable, almost
as it flutters out with the birds
indifferent over the lake
(from ‘Winged’ in Broken/Open)
"Among all the subjects first marked out for lyrical expression by Baudelaire, one can be out at the forefront: bad weather."
At any end it’s about Durance
& title – tho’ calling a spade
A shovel near Xmas
Gets lost without party
Some years end in yellow
Some in smoky cumulus
This day is a slender Green
You can almost see the brush strokes
So holding on, like ‘holding the man’
But we are not men!
Which leaves us Outside, our arms
Lifting the minutes of the Rest
& holding our own green
(from Dark Bright Doors)
To Praise Air
It’s a raising of terrible peace, or desire in a wet eye.
It’s sky’s consideration, fall of slow patience, a private victim, the tender nipple, a sudden write-off, ventilating distant consequence, beyond paper, far and nothing — to have dreamed! — an engaged tone, desperation waked up, a cobalt tobacco, drugs, voiceless, a pilot’s appeal, shiver for brains, a page’s peroration beyond the paraphrase.
It’s last request, flanks of angel dust, one more gasp of ventolin, fucking, clamour, and tracks impelling towards the everything-machine, shooting dice, or unloading, elasticity, excess, things for the scared, a dreamer’s being, a basket of thrills, a damp reverie.
It’s something halting, included/ misunderstood/ for nothing/ but