Stationary Holes.

the long edge of the door,
the four corners of a rectangle -
sat by myself in the corner,
in the corner of one’s eye.

a chair in the garden,
a hole in the clouds.
Fixed in position;
a stationary sound.

a tall man in an overcoat,
a strange floating in her eyes,
a novel that moves slowly
throughout my million years.

a pair of hollow structures,
a crowding of indifferents:
my boots, my accomplishments
cover them with trees.

a bit more rest, a little
excited, an infection of the hand.
The tearing is a memory,
a memory of sounds.

i imagine motorway traffic,
i long for unmoving wholes -
a sudden light that made me
blink, a memory of sounds.

an overcoat that followed,
a noise twisting from the rooftops:
sat by myself in the corner,
not able to be moved.

the streaky pink marble,
the event that took place…
fold in the egg whites
fold in the egg whites.



(April 2006)