Sport 40: 2012
This is the outside.
The Look-Out: Mt Victoria,
or Seurat with his specks for faces, stalled strollers,
cars dissolving. Here are the lanes of the world:
red lights and islands, trafﬁc on skin—sun-spots,
moles, maps of accidental scars. At Odlin’s,
the timber’s been turned into pixels. The wind-tunnel
effect means draughts the size of noise
get sucked between two walls.
This is the inside. The muscle that joins the jaw
to the cheek. The pterygoid stretch of long vowels:
mourn, my’o-car’di-um. In the living room,
there is a car-wash, or Mirò’s Blue I, II, and III:
red lines humming highways, valves closing,
barometry. Which is to say: I watch your softening
pace; which is to feel, your pulse, falling,
under my ﬁngertips.
Wake early, before the delivery trucks line the curb. In a teacup, dry
oolong opens, steam rises from the Fujian, the drain, the province of
Midday is ceaseless. Spiral snail shell, sound waves clink like plates,
crates: The Cornerstore, your cochlea; dull thud of a food tray
surrendered on the couch.
Then, in the lessening light, the exterior. Motorbikes vibrate the
tiles, headlights pass over. Reach behind, push pillows between
your blades, your narrowing back.
Your pellucid hands will speak for you, resting square by your sides,
palms up. Sopor, torpor, deep sleep setting the tone of you. You’ve
been to Cape Point, sung rocks.