Sunday, 23 October 2016
The Haunted Inch
THE HAUNTED INCH
for Timothy Thornton
Our view is identical, crossed
out. At the end of these
walls is total minus:
Some absolute nothing
stasis. Containers, us too,
quietly humming eyes
pinned loose to peeling
shadows, the last planet
to a final
glint. Gone in us.
Catching your face out
nothing I have to prove
to you, that enormous face
in the sand, its curving vectors,
the gravity of its transmit
which is a wholly strange delicacy
wrought & gliding over
containers: Everywhere in stasis
beyond this door,
without a centre; nothing to move deleted
vectors; a drop without a ground.
The slipped horizon a peaceful
nastiness wrought in faces & sick.
holds the inch. The fucking inch
I am in I am in you & the, the snap
you answer, answer nothing. Nothing
calling back; save for a low terrible
rumble miles below
the sky, a minus.
We are quite alone but for these strange
movements, chilled mark near wall
where we are given over to
a once familiar now patched up
moment, more fear in
it. At some kind of desk, the lamp
for a way perhaps to stare down
or out. Out, the mistaken ambit,
this lamp, a view to a terrible darkness.
The perfect inch of air between
frames is crammed with ghost.
It is the haunted inch.
You put your eye into the inch;
it is locked out, to find the inch
a square, a neatly folded distance
in its softness
unable to unpack.
Standing there over
my head & shoulders
there is the form & shape of a man
moving over & around, standing right
behind me, we are adamant
occasionally; there are
four of us there
wearing nothing but ghosts.