Five poems from 'Rift Designs'


XI

stuck at the draft stage and
he's had a radon night
the disintegrating product of an
emanation cast anticlock-
wise or widdershins
in the blue cross way,
a yarn wherein he finds himself disarmed,
but it should be quicker coming back;
just beyond you could see the darkness begin to split--
he eventually succumbs in an avalanche
blinking light through a glass hive
high and deadly from one inch
until he asks me
where do you think we have landed


XIII

no one can leave
sometimes the headword shows up in due
course when the spine cracks open
(she's untried)
the same track we appear to be standing on
is a big mouth of muscles
that never work soon enough--
though not much troubled by the pyres
and the vector
I keep being drawn into
the lens closed against me
into the exhaust and
spirits of the newly read, where
a descending rope valves itself into thin air


XV

spongy ain't a typo lover--
through the decades we're a draining monologue
which could have turned out quite nasty,
lucky I was wearing gloves
to fling that creature back to the waves
and how like an angel came I down!
my own regulations are
linked to radar technology,
processes of redaction unbidden;
I'm rattled and irrational, I know,
but I've spent much of this adrift in unsense
and it's too late to go back now:
it was as though you'd vanished, had been summoned
into the soft morning rain, exiled into abduction


XVI

the table is damp overnight,
no space between its links  
or, put it another way,
something's bitten me:
a pair of saints, one encased within the other
standing ballast on a coastal scan--
I don't think we are, actually,
so leave us where we drop,
a halfmoon cilium on the great white curve of a basin;
relax, this is an era of cultural life in
which you don't have to pretend to be stupid--
now, may we have her cast?
first list objects on tabletop
candelabrum vase camera


XVIII

I think this is two
saltash into
wide rockwell and
the dark is full
under a white marble portico;
what's the name
of that riverran
onto the flagstone, one sept-
agonal coin with oil ricks,
sense embossed
onto a forehead--
but I will surely forget,
despite being carefully made and imported
I couldn't think as slowly as you if I tried

      Richard Makin 2009