A poem written on walking past an arrangement of Jim Dine art pieces in the 'Drawings' section of The British Museum.
Saw – a language between the chords
Swelled – a stifling ripe tomato
Felt – the lungs perpetuate their slow sad breaths
A fog which declares it’s ‘fine’ again
As the clutch
This time is human
Selects a handtool, but with legs open
What have we become?
Is there time?
Carving out the white highlights of the face
In the shale a-scattered round
From an attack – old nibs, needles
Each strand of hair, intact, yet unbound.