from The Blue Lot
by Stephen Emmerson
There’s a list somewhere. First payment from the state to remember your wedding photos. At least. Out there. A crow on the horizon liquidising sun. Or heartbeat unmonitored. Or leaves that are not its own. I have a policy on falling in
tomorrow. A water that returns to vapour. This. To remind you that the body is receptive to the shape of the tongue. Communication is temporary. How about feeding them crisps and chocolate til they bury themselves in language. Take him to
this is factual you know. Mark retaliates by walking through the river. So systematic in the letting go that he begins to enjoy the power. I reckon its a cruel necessity to get off & into the car. Drive for miles to the point of dark &
recoup the dead opera stars finger in your mouth. I’ll keep meeting you in frequencies that totally mark with pesticides. & fuck in the parked moment, the rain a juiced diamond at the back of a grandmothers throat. Walk through
and snuff out demands so we can meet again and again. Pressing teeth in lieu of chest. So close to liars in our bed. If there is static believe it will pass. Push over the frames. Scrape mud from your shoe, the chalked outline of
a new beginning. The universe knows never. This is animal law. When we talk about memory we create memory. To be stuck in the present is supposed to be gift. But with 7 pieces of information. A chimney stack swallows you whole but
its dawning blood. Towels are ordinary words that kiss. Finger out information. The letters in those towers, judging by the angle of sun. Yes those shadows and our destination ONE. Or if it starts to falter
Stephen Emmerson is the author of Telegraphic Transcriptions (Dept
Press), Poems found at the scene of a murder (Zimzalla), The Last Ward (Very Small Kitchen), A never ending poem . . . (Zimzalla) and No Ideas but in things (KFS). He lives in London.
