You make your mark like this, by scraping
the poetry of the future clean
of angels’ body parts, or proving
humiliation is flammable,
by mounting hypnotic spectacles
of confidence or holding the head
of state rock-steady in your cross-hairs.
This is how you make it, by offering
something to echo and erosion.
Candidly the hand that shook the can
writes I like short short$ and having writ
texts to see what’s going down under
the sign of the sneakers full of rain.
Not a lot. A concrete-pumping boom
swings into place. A footsore psycho-
geographer stops to consider
mysticism as a Trojan Horse
to revive the city’s dead angles.
Headquarters of the public secret
constellation of places and things
my sister has shaped: a chicken gleans,
a cup of tea goes cool reflecting
crow-flight and cloud-shear. Holding open
an unflinching eye, she lets the drop
fall while sketching on a mental bloc
towards what might come after the end
of a long slow curve of dry stone wall.
Angles and Marks
1 October 2015