(after Agnes Martin)



I

can barely stay on it

look at it            (now

seeing that I’ve

become frightened of you)

areas of dark white move

like fish beneath

like bruises—rounded, spoken:

submerged garden

pressing to flower after having

flowered.

border is barely different

but the difference holds

liquid from teeming

(to know I’m afraid

breaks me off in small pieces)

                     after. noon.             relief’s

weather.

still house, since.          and disks

of milksun cast across cat’s body

which seems              a single

darkest bruise—

sunk through with light.
this work.
luckily my eyes see less

and less well, else its

grain would assail me:

photo image in a book

whose spine is not yet

broken (can one come back

from fear? its stream

must drizzle at a pace

integratable in a life—

yes questions of chemistry)
milk.

mayonnaise.

(the way I was so wet, so freshly

painted, with you

—our even pond)

border adjacent to the

pale, central piece. Held Area.

and I see

fingertips not taking

/ approaching: a just approach

to draw sobs.
—sobs from sheer patience

safer,

skin’s wait turned auditory
(today, earlier I read

high philosophy (kind, hard) then careened

below and parallel

to

concrete monument offsetting

sky. to music. flying in thought

through an air we might have named

                                      there’s more and more

I       will       not      have       wired to you.)
beats along imperceptible lines,

fine species of metal ear

(my timid, listening eyes

and my person

having named fear)

do not f— this painting

but might avoid it:

pale,

held.
held        to hold open. its formation,

apparently without noise, inscrutable:
art of ab.  stain.  ing.

                            from anticipation

( w/r/t futures’      width     metre

                 saturation     tone)
and now: [a list of all the words that sound

the sounds of colourless liquid]