suite

I.

I could once have turned something into poetry.
But shouldn’t poetry be that thing which
turns the writing person
into words –
that unpack themselves, shuffling
like living rocks, little
puffing rocks. Me –
a stream of letters, unpronounceable,
lined up like birds on a wire
screen-printed shapes
against the light of evening
(straw-coloured, undecided
night). Awake,

and then you might read me
- silently, since a dead language -
and be happy.

II.

That small variation in some bastard
pattern some concrete iron and plaited hell
could cause a snicker a
snicker in the perpen-
dicular and nudge and bulge and
rub itself against it own padlocked colour
its own simple blackwhite grating and
gyrating those angles into
curves
the floor drops away and I am
forgotten no
small pale creature
 puffing his-and-her
I am rain and the sleet of too much
travelling and my legs
give way
I start to roll like the
grey of liquid metal like
the grey of matter inside
a religious
cranium
if I married sound would
my mind always
sing
this loud?

III.

tomorrow
I have no idea
of tomorrow
you think
you’re going to
get through it
like a plan, a
knitted article, but then
on the way some heat
takes you by
the hand & you
dispell all order
all
doubt &
your feet now faster
than a burnt
horizon
turn
with lost purpose.