Sleeping poems, stacked spine to spine to spine. A dog eared book at the bottom of a handbag – time-softened tissues, torn silver wrapper, tampon, wallet. A woman walks with her hands in her pockets. Countries stack names on top of each other, colours knock up against black drawn lines. A map stretched across a living room. Light threaded through the eye of a needle. Fingers clasping a suitcase handle. A hallway lined with doors.
And all the time the lift shoots up and down, leaving a conveyor belt trembling.
Rotten flesh and the spaces in between things. A mother with her face turned away.
Blue and red steps, and the multicoloured edges of chairs. Red tights. Green jumper. I ‘heart’ NY.
A city full of scars. Scuff marks. Flat pack, dotted lines, screwdriver, spirit level. A station pointing east. Space portal. Words easing in between bricks, through gaps thin as credit cards. Kerb. Vista. A trio of estate agents battling names. Or a body perhaps: blood, arteries, bones.
Buses pass. Library date stamps cluster in circles. Empty wine glass. Shadows against blinded windows.
Borders squeezed tight as belts. A paintbrush colouring words. Someone falls on the edge of a pavement. Another turns away, back home.
Tags: GB Poets