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The Mikrokosmos is a cycle…
graded according to difficulties.
And the word ‘Kosmos’ may be interpreted,
‘Mikrokosmos’ may be interpreted as a world…
− Béla Bartók
CROWBAR
The crowbar
has a forked tongue
and painted lip –
interrogator
of drain cover, fence post,
kitchen tile.
TILE
The tile I put my cup on
is hazed with stains
but blue enough
to make my mouth water
a blue out of all reason.
The tile says I’m feminine.
I keep the faith
in small gestures
hold them up
one by one
to the light.
VEE-DUB
It’s dandy driving in the camper van at night,
a little world
travels briskly past the headlights.
One of you puts on The Eagles, the other laughs
and switches to the News,
thinking you agree. You almost do.
Incoherent in the dark
the old terror
is coming nearer.
CATCH
Under my thumb
a window catch
dials open − closed −
the spiral guiding
its brass tongue home
as if relationship
resolves itself
by calibrations.
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