Xüuq

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.