Stuck in a yellowed silence then simply stuck one post-catastrophe. Loves, leaves, that which was come apart in between. Colours now darker. Landscape other. Which worlds unsung which ones to come in that expanse the singular bloom: you: committed cadence of undoing.
Some afternoons a wash of Flemish light flame-lined they flared across the iron waters, sparked silver into evening, blurred the few figures beneath, then smouldered westward on swallowtail and shadow. Willow branches low. Twilight in the collar hinting past the curtain of the song.
This is what one remembers.
Still, up there, where evening only shows in reverse, one watched the weather warble pale in the panes. While down below, light already other, hope edged inward slowly, unseen, as it will. An embrace, a quiet falling, coagulation into alphabets unknown.
And yet, in the ripped-toothed city no ruin was ever gentle. An incessant hurry here construction furies against what will fade, creates, outside then in, the new geography of now: concrete, clip, angle and edge.
(this poem originally appeared in the Seagull Books Fall 2017 – Spring 2018 catalogue)