This is in response to reading poems recently by W.S. Graham and Barbara Guest. It’s a first draft.


the purpose is just
this, to push your life at the edges

to step out, blur borders so yellow bleeds
into blue and the scarlet
rectangle balances


in your dry room, your landlocked thoughts
are on time-lapse


sudden lights like waves

another frame of mind freezes 
into one by Hokusai

you can walk around it,
old gesture in close-up,
from deep to shallow,

viewing-points around a body:
of water, bodies mostly are
water, you can only wait, drink, smoke

close the curtains
on that asexual moon or the tide

won’t ebb like uneven boundaries
suggestive of fear around 
subsidiary colours, by association

the purpose of drift is to push
at the moment leap blue

sharp edge of an ice wave grazes
one heel however its dimensions
are not dissimilar from those of parachutes
that land wild thoughts, some which 

will die, your unleashed ones
in an upside down turn of place
where you must breathe on your hands


reach into the hands of others
to pull whatever’s in there free from the frame. 

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