For Mark Cobley
Strangely known. Night hurrying
out of its frame into technicians’
fiery sonic deliquescence. The trade in diamante heads.
Unknown sonic technician. Dark powder
that is day / break rattling their beads.
Rafts would glide the river still as glass.
Why am I at this vanishing
point for painters miraculously gifted
with silence? I could be a snowflake & wear pretty clothes.
There’s also someone on a tear of ground
loomed over by highrises. Every hour she removes a shoe & solemnly inspects
the heel for signs of wear.
Now it’s only possible to know obscurity reflectively.
But in ancient times there were immense icy waterfalls
fusing with cloud & songs of birds came from within.