1

Morning loosens

small bright spots

from total space.
On one hill, the black trees emerge

arthritically

from indistinguishable

black. Perspective is here
& i can lean against

its vertical to rest, whereas

the dark unclear

fell through my body
in circles as i fall

like a leaf through sleep

when missing clear edge.

 

 
2

Surface smudges out of

light creating leaves, twigs,

blue, and red, and green.

And talk is here:
its beginning sparkle of relation,

thing to thing, amid the general glint,
of technology's

spontaneous replication and overflow,

an exuberance of pylons, roadsigns,

hung on the eye, simply

like a print.

 

 
3

And talk is technology, gliding

three centimetres below the eyeball

a plank, a canvas tough enough for feet.
And perspective is surface, frosted on sight

like an outline of dyed ice

crusting the branches at child-height.
And colour is talk, looping through

the throat its paroxyms of indigo, vermillion, puce

their rare flavour.
All toy descriptions shine among the solid,

visible and clear, around the tree's

vertical line. It rights my eye

against the horizon.

 

 
4

The morning is cold.

On my breath i can see:

language is here.
But a mere three

centimetres deep

inside this black coat,
distance still blooms ungageable, like a flower

a mile across, that looks right-sized

from certain heights. In here,
all light has gone,

or not yet appeared,

and against me, the shadows

of unborn trees lean.