Fiona Hile

Sitting with your back to the elm-filled window,
laked extract of ripe Buckthorn berries
retro-teaching skipping girl how to skip,
you applaud the absence of Mondrian Green.
 
Faulty pylons screeching sparks into the cindering
daylight Semaphores in the first night Purgatory
of the Act One day the child of Dickens new
corridor transitions burn misrecognised in
the vinyl overlays of heliotropic figuration
 
Fast Green Lake sprays panoptic quietude
in the TEx mEX panoply of bands named after
words: if all of our communications belong
to others and the minimal distance between
your shirt and my shoulder is all we can share
 
But the cosmic exposition of the passionate two is also nature itself
So the muscles tensed for flensing in the trigonometry of information
fail the test of morning Stepping out into the molecular heresy of leaves
subjections of signs give play to the dissimulation of danger
What can I do? A goldfish swimming in a room full of skulls is not
 
indiscernable Outside my office window the throng of voices
Rises up on the paralytic point by point Escapade of natural oblivion,
your voice leaves its name to join the soundtrack of the new world Spring
mist plots a graphic heteronym that I call nature, each leaf distinct as
illness Numbering the pages of a parallel history in which we marry and spend
 
Mondrian! There isn’t a poet alive who would disagree with your conception of
nature.
For them, the Sublime is a handle for the grinding of sausages. Sublation is
useful in the construction of powerful individuals. To be a poet is to hold

every opinion, to know that nature does not exist and to tolerate
the impossibility of whole parts. I confess:
 
The Lilliputian threads of the old ways make me want to lose a limb
I have tried to be everything and I cannot do it.
 
stupid permanent estrangement
 
promises to forget childhood promises in the forging of our new life
 
In the shrink reduce distinct of Bentham-by-way-of-Burke
our silence is creating new forms of interaction.
 
Giving in to what you will not be, indifferent personification
gasping in the terrified light Your terminous gaze imposes
movement on the move from impotence to impossibility Flees
inductive exposition of the count says An easel is a guillotine
 
by means of which we exploit image, comparison and
rhythm Ideally, we would have nothing of subjective confidings
Yet, to love poetry is to love not being able
 
to choose On an intransitive note I think
the light transfigures you as you speak – Lisbon 6am
slip insert desire for describe
 
Harem skerrick of horse Twice-listed how you become me
Presentations of liquid description annihilate the disperse and leak of
thirsting for armature, the dry pad trickle of foreign Projection
Dissembles in the prevaricatory jungle Assembled incontestate at the
frontier :  I like your idea of an objectless love
 
drawing of a tree
 
Atrium’d windache apocraphies bending situationist branches
Fouled by the gold leaf declensions of Eleven shimmering
navel oranges descending Incrementally