I’m lost in dense bush

seeking a register

of familiarity:

the mandarin of flame,

white of bled light,

cold char black.

There’s a harmonic

of invisible birds:

lucid bell, bleb of whip,

the mimic lyre.

Son of Wyoming

somehow

knowing

how spears of tree-fern cock, here,

how a skin of clay splits

and lifts.

How hot resin,

burst from bark,

like paint, runs, and clots.


Notes:

In response to Blue poles [Number 11, 1952], 1952 by Jackson Pollock.

Enamel and aluminium paint with glass on canvas, 212.1cm x 488.9cm, National Gallery of Australia.