Sitting with your back to the elm-filled window,
laked extract of ripe Buckthorn berries
retro-teaching skipping girl how to skip,
you applaud the absence of Mondrian Green.

Faulty pylons screeching sparks into the cindering
daylight Semaphores in the first night Purgatory
of the Act One day the child of Dickens new
corridor transitions burn misrecognised in
the vinyl overlays of heliotropic figuration

Fast Green Lake sprays panoptic quietude
in the TEx mEX panoply of bands named after
words: if all of our communications belong
to others and the minimal distance between
your shirt and my shoulder is all we can share

But the cosmic exposition of the passionate two is also
nature itself So the muscles tensed for flensing in the
trigonometry of information fail the test of morning

Stepping out into the molecular heresy of leaves
subjections of signs give play to the dissimulation of danger
What can I do? A goldfish swimming in a room full of skulls is not

indiscernable Outside my office window the throng of voices
Rises up on the paralytic point by point Escapade of natural oblivion,
your voice leaves its name to join the soundtrack of the new world Spring
mist plots a graphic heteronym that I call nature, each leaf distinct as illness
Numbering the pages of a parallel history in which we marry and spend

Mondrian! There isn’t a poet alive who would disagree with your conception of nature.
For them, the Sublime is a handle for the grinding of sausages.
Sublation is useful in the construction of powerful individuals.
To be a poet is to hold every opinion, to know that nature does not exist
and to tolerate the impossibility of whole parts. I confess:

The Lilliputian threads of the old ways make me want to lose a limb.
I have tried to be everything and I cannot do it.

stupid permanent estrangement

promises to forget childhood promises in the forging of our new life

In the shrink reduce distinct of Bentham-by-way-of-Burke
our silence is creating new forms of interaction.

Giving in to what you will not be, indifferent personification gasping in the terrified light
Your terminous gaze imposes movement on the move from impotence to impossibility
Flees inductive exposition of the count says An easel is a guillotine

by means of which we exploit image, comparison and
rhythm Ideally, we would have nothing of subjective confidings
Yet, to love poetry is to love not being able

to choose On an intransitive note I think
the light transfigures you as you speak – Lisbon 6am
slip insert desire for describe

Harem skerrick of horse Twice-listed how you become me
Presentations of liquid description annihilate the disperse and leak of thirsting for armature,
the dry pad trickle of foreign Projection Dissembles in the prevaricatory jungle Assembled
incontestate at the frontier: I like your idea of an objectless love

drawing of a tree

Atrium’d windache apocraphies bending situationist branches Fouled by the gold leaf declensions of Eleven shimmering navel oranges descending Incrementally