we huddle close together;
we fasten balloons to divining rods.

our hands struggle to control
the intangible, the quarantine of place
in the house of readymade phrase.

we are shadowless soldiers of confusion,
excavators of experience.

time has become a frozen threshold
that invites escape; rebellion against
the dead time, the curvatures of skulls.

always homesick and sick of home.
--

a woman in her underwear,
insatiably pandering to childhood fears:
strange, hilly vistas with scattered
trees that negate lived experience,
a still projection of a man
collapsed into flatness.

she feels like a victim of drowning
as he dunks his head into the water
that floats her destruction,
the dark heart of his body
under her surface.

his face is a warmth,
ruined in a variety of ways.
thin arms and legs, his carefully
arranged piles of heirlooms
a colour induced memory
made tangible.

he drives a nail in the things
that are held in the heart.