One metre is one ten-millionth
of the distance from the Equator
to the North Pole through Paris
This is a useful measurement
Then there is the truth of ratios:
a bird’s wingspan to a room,
the opening in the window
it entered through, then lost.
The weight of a pair of hands
trying to free it. There is the lonely
side of dialogue. The pieces
of the map and the ground
covered by your body when you fall.
The cleverness you trail like
a comet. The circus and the flea.
Edson’s ambushed stone to
the size of his mother’s love. Some
giddy slippage, to all the harmonic
points on a line to infinity.
The curved eyeball to the keyhole
of the hostage, then, the walls of
the captive. Lullaby of bedrock
to all it cradles. The hollow
of your hand to what I would fill
it with. The rose and what rose.
There’s writing on both sides
of the paper. The sensation
of speaking in tongues. All those
centred deities of blind voyeurs
to the spectrum of a single note.
The other side of the river to
a fish. Totems and guttered stars.
Death, ash, fire, warmth and smoke.
A forced song of almost someone
in so many breaths, there is also this:
Made flesh: what I take in
from what was said.