or a poem called:

I Painted my Room in a Colour Named Lilac

in which the world walks
then runs
as a process of verb
to imagine a single heartbeat
is a process of speech,
process of energy
to invent, re-invent
a few remaining
trees outside a lilac room
lilac outside a curious mind
outside a process of air and light

thinking that
is the religion
of the intelligent
the opiate of the rain-washed
sun driven experience
of an early spring day,
alone in a house

dazzled by the process, music,
a book of hours, open

to the process of wind/air/
lightly chosen, in a life

carried off the scale, notes on the
fall of a sparrow, so many notes

played in dazzling scale
to those remaining

curious and curiouser, at last
stunned, by claims not made by us
of affection, of speech,
of naming, outside the lilac room

the parts of speech
known to us

as houses, rented rooms
in a midlands hung-over and dazzled

leaves like copper, lilac
or at least something called
back from the brink of forgetting
and fraught with distance