small bright spots
from total space.
On one hill, the black trees emerge
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.
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,
spontaneous replication and overflow,
an exuberance of pylons, roadsigns,
hung on the eye, simply
like a print.
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.
The morning is cold.
On my breath i can see:
language is here.
But a mere three
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.
Sally Ann McIntyre
On the Tip of the Visible
25 April 2002