- peripateia: a note on the method
I walk
an hour each week
with the rusting town
the barnacle
and its spate of sea
the skin is dark with dreaming
and the sky is always blank
can I smell this pencil
making a spectacle?
I have the mechanism apart in my hands
in order to deprive it of sense
in order to dampen infernal ticking
each tatoo
is a fleet of voyages
its brave limbs
labour deck for tide
all in the big book noted
ashore I am
as stray shipping come
stumped in conclusion of all the sea’s said
become part of the wall, part of the paper
the seasons have their streets in this
a doorway painted red
or birds raucous
streets don’t spring up
they are worn down to this
each ends in harbour, mast, grimy moon
the world is a wedding
of waters, of salt
my work the unfitting of pieces
I walk