Cara clowse in Cowse1 
The photograph is a forest

and pin-prick enchantment.

Cords tighten.

Chords brighten,

managing running images.
Touch the invisible!

Hands buzz simply in a new direction.

I am empty,

strangling,

twirling, shivering.
Talk of meaning?

useless nothing.

Empty the hand.

Names of blood

evaporate.
Misread the bones!

Anachronism falters.

My throat trills your ears with a quietening curse,

the other identities as ghastly

as the cycle of nature.
 
 
1. Mediaeval Cornish — nowadays carrek los yn cos — meaning “the hoar rock in the wood” 
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