HER GALLERY

In a room with no doors
is her gallery, a well of time
where in conversation, she
might presently lose her
train of thought, eye falling
into the frames like a bathysphere

tonight sleep is not forthcoming
post-fuck, I'm absorbed by her
so like a glass of ice water
on a red hot day, hand slipping
up the glass, I take a few sips
from her past

First-off, the pound-shop frames
hard to believe these could be
containers of flowing memory
structural steel, varnished
yellow pine, gaudy constructs.

But here is her mother set above
the bed, monochrome dots
fizzing in gloss, sunglasses
high on her ponytail head
staring sweetly out the window

And here high above the window
her father, redness tinted
like staring into an oven, he soaks
up the image, larger than life
the big dog propping up the bar
he sits with goofy grin
dazed and dreamlike amongst strangers

Leant back on a stand, bedside
here she is, making snow angels
with her sister, duffled in two huge
carmine coats, a pair of lobsters
in the ice tray of a fishmongers

By the mirror, nestled amongst make up
Here she is radiant, curled
on a beach, behind her blue descending
like a musty peach, windowed behind sunglass

BEACH FRAGMENTS

In Summer’s indolence, I’m rude.
Body flummoxed from walk-camp
Walk-camp. Days merge
like the seconds
Between a step:
At night my body floats,
Lifted by a fat moon.
By morning, the dew beneath
groundsheet bruises Earth
Like a footprint

Low tide, neap now too.
The crackle of a pebble beach
Thick mossed boat ropes
sink into the stones.
Pull as I might, there is no give
imagine these chords latched
To a forgotten treasure
Only obtainable by Hercules
Or a tractor
I pick softly cut seaglass
Selecting only the best 
Before the sea closes shop
And covers its wears

The sandflies prick up at gloaming
Pipers descend, funnelling them in
Weeping