Discreetly the undersea cables make landfall
at stations south of Lunenburg, again on the coast
of the Carolinas, again at Widemouth Bay
where Apollo, TAT-8, TAT-14, and Yellow (AC2)
are whisked away. Not a night goes by deep water
sharks aren’t at the polyethylene sheathing
along some juncture of SEA-WE-ME 3. We love
the light for its polluting effects. Love how unseen
we remain stood undressed in his field of vision.
Not a night goes by. We feel graced to absorb
what lumens are there stood undressed in the eye
of the luminous flux. Redstarts go headlong
into the high structures, their brief lives a ripple
in the tuned sloshing damper above and we
honour each by waking to more light, our star
in the 6th of its 7 year cycle, blanching and casting
about for admirers. A voice that could make
crêpe de chine in eau-de-nil come. We remain
nameless in photographic memory but he gets
a little hard at the sight of past injury. A falling
man in the shadow of the wings on the tarmac.
A form falling through the vertical wind shear.
His voice burnt and slowed to hypnosis, he
could sell you things, or end us, terminal desire
being its own beauty. Powers of sight concluding
just off the coast of the patrician face. Bend at the
waist in wasted light working late in the urban core.
The move from satellite to fibre optics increases both
volume and heart rate by orders of. Received wisdom
said Light the Place Up, and it was lit up, and desire
found new space to see itself perform. If we could
all bunk off class at Andover and have Jackie serve
us supper. If the day were anything less than saturated
blue illusion, anything more. Breathless at her neck
in the moment she succumbed. They come ashore
at Bude and the white radomes suck them up.
The predators are after the sheathing or they’re
after the light inside, we can’t know as they operate
deep in dark fathoms – a night goes by in a pulse. Pause
to reconcile the farm labour with the binge watch,
the special dentistry with the democratic urge.
He loves us in pink. So swathe the earth in it. Rituals
declare themselves for the Anthropocene’s 13th
pontifex, behold the disarranged grid of eaters
in the extreme white of the food court, eyes like
sheep-face stunned at the core of the Fuller Brooch.
Soon we’ll ask a generation conceived in light
what it is to be conceived of light, their original
dark contraband, illuminate sin in a dish. No ground
from which to claim No Strings. No dark inward,
no Scapa Flow, ignorant inlet inside which entire
fleets scuttled in a night’s welding bee. We are all
accountable in the wind farms after the Art party.
To fit three in a Corvette coupe, best the third be dead.
Winter loves chutney, replace the missing cone
with same, the chariots rise, the chariots do rise.

Photograph © Rookuzz..