Not wanting contact

In the corridor Along the walls, a green of mint ice-cream, are plastic chairs moulded grey for sitting in the moment before the cold night coming. Not wanting contact, she slips a piece of paper through the door. — I had an appointment with the renal specialist today. In the hospital corridor I sat with the

Exalted thus, we left

An old favourite revisited, because artists are allowed to have their obsessions. “Exalted thus, we left” is a reworking of a poem from 2011: I love the Dorothea Tanning painting that spurred the original “Jacob’s Dream for crinolined girls”. When I’m in Tate Modern, I’ll usually try to pop into the Surrealism gallery to gaze

Spring Wants

The poet wants new curtains, please. Yellow and white, in a gingham print of medium squares; lined in white cotton. The light will stream through across the room and catch the duvet on the bed in a stroke of sunny warmth, The poet wants new curtains, please. New ones that don’t slump from hooks that

Screens

Today latticed with songs and compound triple time. Hung other times (such as late at night) with green-scaled dragons, golden bridges, tilted bonsai trunks. More often stretched across with traffic; the commuter’s weave of fumes and crush.   From a vantage point above the screen, ideally the viewing platform on the super moon, we may