FIGURE

This next hour is indifferent green, bled across and 

gone, never claiming to have been different but still -

an hour to drag through.

                            (Adjacent room, grey sand pools through the apertures 

                             of a phone call. each moment pressing into itself like a weak pulse)


 

You’d like to do more than map the space you take up. Naming the paths, the
synapses, drawing out the shapes of things as if this is command over them, it’s not.

Walking around like a clenched fist would you unfurl, fern-like, if approached
by the right syntax? Describe all the intricacies like tracing the lace of a tablecloth
spread out under a wide light. In a white afternoon she asked you to scratch the
wax off old pearls, clean the studs in silver-dip. You were stunned, moved, and
had nothing at all to say about it.

BRYONY

DAWSON