a man locks the door but
leaves the car-window down.
still, there’s a greater evil
in all open-spaces: bumpy
whites meant to repel the gaze;
prismatic angles of shadow
that do nothing. of course
the window is not true (my
critical bumpiness) but it
very nearly was.

so, you see, there is (therefore
& naturally) a tent hidden deep
in everyone’s psyche, a tent
that could be full of holes.
don’t imagine you’re removed
from the scene, aping a chalk-
outline on the footpath.

‘there’s no tent in my soul!’

but secretly you continue
collecting & mounting evidence
against all ideas. the observation
wager goes on: sand, then lines,
then a lonely corner of frame &
then the bits of crap you keep
in your pockets – something to
play with. before there’s time
to rubbish your progress (like
my idea for a murder-mystery,
but done cleverly) you meet
an oddly cut image surely
forged of the right-brain.

the body within your glass
is here figurative, there
conceptual. could it be
the point? like a brett whitely
portrait the painter couldn’t
finish, because he was in fact
trapped inside a painting, his
limbs hardening with burnt-
umber & fixative, his
inner-compulsion becoming
a directive of the critics
before he could make up
his mind to quit?

in that case there’s either
something irredeemably complex
in you, or else elegantly mossy:
no mind can have it both ways.