To think of all the expectant creatures circling about,

the gulls circling, the white cat dozing into orbits beside me,

the crystalline drift of an ant colony between lines,

even the eruption of the gangly palm, over time,

would swirl in lazy, inexplicable spirals. 
The way a cloud’s wound opens to pour light

on the thigh of a tumbling city,

the way a painting accumulates frayed fragments of decisions

and art is absconding to homes submerged by coasts

and the stupor of books closing, and fraying fibres, and bells.
Catch horrid hairs as they are falling,

collect the ash as it is floating, construct dams and

train lines with bolts, leap to uncertain conclusions, rims,

the particular tones of metal and crisp white,

a line provoking form, a form losing content.
Lifeless as a camera lens on an orange quilt, and pastels

on a hazy day, or there’s orange with lime-green on homes,

dogs barking at the wind’s fleece, dogs with clumps

of shit stuck in their coats, think of bowls of dead fruit,

fruit dropping from trees, a web-like hope
strung within the circles of its own filaments. Through

a revolution of sense, or a ridge consumed in fog:

the odour of things and their forms, their exhaustion,

cities swirling about in lazy spirals, waiting for space to close

and for shade, and shade, and never, ever, sound.