from Empirical

By | 1 August 2016


Now I will walk again into this field of wreckage
which is my starting place—On its stone heaps the tussock
is dry stalks the colour of a scratch in glass and rattling fennel
tendrils from the root—A single cloud
now coming in over the motorway on slow dissolves of light—
Along the cutting’s side speargrass with a rain wind in it
moves through the shape of a catching fire—This
stoppedness before rain in which years I have forgotten
invent a landscape still in what I have named landscape—
ruinable, incandescent, piece by piece drawn
into that blank in thought which sets the names
in their array—tussock, speargrass, wild fennel—bright charges
hung upon abyss—Do you remember?
In head-high grass, its pale seedheads, the wind is massing
light, lights moving in place and scattering down—
At the level of my eye the grass untidy, touchable, steeply
its slant stalks narrowing back into their likeness—
A train which even now is sending its long cry back
out of the vanishing point it keeps discovering from the scene—
The rain is first a prickling sound and then hand hair eyes all
touch and does not know me walled in itself, its dazzling blank—
The road will come through here—

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