By | 1 May 2014

after Tacita Dean

A toe winces in the corner
As if inside a shoe.
So many frames
Inside frames.
Is a panelled door
A building spliced into rooms?
I cling to possibility,
Two figures blur to three—
Glimpse of lakes on the moon.
Spots of red
Spark like jewels,
Disrupt my living.

In this tunnel of light
No paintbox of blood:
White noise
Flickers polka-dots,
Around its navel
The waterfall runs backwards.
The single pine at dusk
Collects pink neon spots—
Like wormholes.
Like cracks that distil
What light there is.

My personal Everest
Seen from above—
Sharp as a shredded moon.
White nitrogen
Pulses its lost horizon,
A chimney blows pompoms
into a no comment sky.
The doorway clings to blue,
Mountains uluru the red.
Pale ocean sweeps in real time,
Sweeps it out again.

Giant bubbles parry
Downward drift,
Stay intact,
A black-and-white orange
Globes so close
It almost dreams a breast.
An egg sits on an apartment ledge.
The quality of flower-pink
Is a contract she clutches in one hand
Not like Mondrian’s return
To infinite flower-shops
Nor pared-back Chagall.

A white-barred pigeon pecks
The edge of a field.
The escalator offers up,
But only travels down.
Black slate is spilt
In filmic light:
The floor’s too deep,
The light too shallow.
Nothing lives
Outside its apparition.
Nothing not known at last.

Note: ‘Is a contract she clutches in one hand’ and ‘paintbox of blood’ are from ‘The Fall’by Jordie Albiston.
Nothing not known at last’ is a minor adaptation of a phrase from ‘Everythings’ by Alex Skovron.

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