a circle of burnt sienna it’s pumpkin soup an unblemished moon in deep blue china rising
propitious as a catalogue of house paint is suggestive
(euphonium nevada camembert and classic sky)
or a creek in winter chortling wine through snow below a triangle of mulberry edged with black
this is where i think kandinsky comes in
mapping the sparks of neurones averaged over a lifetime opening magi’s gifts
and never gasped but rode a horse in silence
a nun identifying the key to logic a perfumery of tendrils each composed of crystals expanding into a view from a plane flying north with no soundtrack tabula rasa whizzing below
then sloughed from your retina a ufo a blank coin bright as the sun matching your speed so concentrate on your cockpit controls don’t look at it it might go away
d’you ever get tired of altitude
or the lessons of the past
tedious historians
who can’t find a cupboard
in the dark?