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"picturewindow" poems
I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard nil by nil by nil feet How to describe a sensation such as heat to them? The interminable sun and so on I wonder if they understand that Light itself is not heat whereupon the bell sounds their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air I look at a Dupuytren in the room Cord around the chair His clothes hanging off him Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair From his eyes My room looks out beyond the yard It is high up - precarious Through that picturewindow, the world without is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown spires and roofing I see my own sadness, my impotence In every inch of the heights the girls come back, propping black bikes against the gate; my legs are wrapped in a blanket and I feel nothing below my waist Through a system of cables and consent my companion molls in Bergonic poise each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart lessening the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed He read about Escher in bed waiting to be plugged unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and unbeknownst methods until he forgot those days in Margate the sound of his nieces and everything he read about Escher – the light makes dull the precision of the thorn
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Aug 6, 2013
Aug 6, 2013 at 12:46 PM UTC
rf
light courted, coursed
I watch the loping invalids in the courtyard nil by nil by nil feet How to describe a sensation such as heat to them? The interminable sun and so on I wonder if they understand that Light itself is not heat whereupon the bell sounds their minds divide and fog in the somnolent air I look at a Dupuytren in the room Cord around the chair His clothes hanging off him Trying to move his remarkable shock of hair From his eyes My room looks out beyond the yard It is high up - precarious Through that picturewindow, the world without is framed, beyond the walls the oldtown spires and roofing I see my own sadness, my impotence In every inch of the heights the girls come back, propping black bikes against the gate; my legs are wrapped in a blanket and I feel nothing below my waist Through a system of cables and consent my companion molls in Bergonic poise each day the room behind his eyes receded, the heart lessening the birds gathered around the bathroom doors to be fed He read about Escher in bed waiting to be plugged unbeknownst rigours of treatment, and unbeknownst methods until he forgot those days in Margate the sound of his nieces and everything he read about Escher – the light makes dull the precision of the thorn
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