always anticipate the
mishap, when the one blazing
buttercup in seventy
acres of shale is eaten
by a passing antelope.
suddenly, the flown
are tethered to hush,
blue, the colour of the known,
green-blue, the unknown,
and beneath these, turquoise-brown,
kelp rustling in the inner ear,
thrush in the stunt-fir, by which they set
up clapboard bathing huts
for all the Ladies of Vassar,
their calves white as halved shallots,
here, on the very shores of
the shores of Panthalassa,
[or, well, Watchtower Point] where a fresh wind
entices one Charles Olson, in his dented sou’wester
to haul in the horizon,
then the collapsed fishing shacks of Gloucester
- extract ‘Daimon’ from ‘diamond’ -
as all dissolved at his ear.
[and the only diamonds here the spaces defined
by the net mesh.]
And this be his wish.
“One more endive, Guinevere?”
“Ho there – it’s a porpoise.” [as
if gloss was the seal’s purpose]
“There have been fresh air strikes on Syria.”
“Mr Melville is unwell.”
The revisions of time are severe.
off the coast of me…
raised beach / antimacassar;
us, speckles, decline,
mirage hiding mirage we
abhor what we revere, to
travel is not to return.
From Trawlerman’s Turquoise (Bloodaxe Books, 2019)