I'll get to the rest of this stuff as & when,
the repeat prescriptions of landscape,
these grown-up catalogues of light.
Imagine the centre of strangeness,
the place where everything comes from;
progress lurches about all over the place.
There's more rumble here than decision:
vandalised interventions and forecasts
and ten times the available meaning.
Let angels steal the text and slip away.
Mind's a broken window, experience a trap;
everything points to endless dialogue.
Don't we need to look between times?
Between things? Our focus slips toward
pleasures to come. Thanks for sending
but count me out. The strange scent
of tomorrow is history. I recognise
how she walks, the angle of gravity.
I've known of miracles, but what's left
is a name engraved on the gallery wall.
Your biography is one last locked door.