Love Swordfish Artichoke.

Sometimes, I read poetry and I think
why don’t I read poetry more often?
I should read it everyday, wake up
five or six, Google random words like
wing, cusp, love, swordfish,
artichoke. This approach

wouldn’t be the most direct
but I might find-

the interlocking panels of a silver bream –
mistaken catch, failed sight, marine
biologist. There may be fields,
unfurled flags of
lit loam, fresh soil – tulip bulbs
like hand grenades.

Love would be
something on the cusp of something else,
a line of light, door held.
Something escaping slowly.

Would it burn circles in the screen?
Reach out, graze skin?
Would I still be able to go to work?

The other day I found some
pressed inside the pages of a
pulped book – coiled whip,
small snake.

It trapped my breath and buried it
beneath a cherry tree, in a garden
on the outskirts of a different city
I had to walk for miles to recover it.

But when I got there it was different.

It was caught
in the dark glass
of a thick jar.
It was night time
but even with the moon,
you could see the fire.

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