Wednesday, 27 March 2013


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. 

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