It is this vast plane of nothingness
that my imagination cannot grasp. Yet it is mine.
Shouldn't I be able to make more of this?
My imagination: a vast plane of nothingness.
This is how I wither.
But this is not quite right.
I can stitch shallow fields in the breadth of the plane
and think of watery colours. Make browns and greens
appear and look for shapes to settle.
I suppose there are ships and towers, a blur
of industry against a receding sea.
And I can put a boy there
who remains still. He is very pale.
From where he is standing he sees aeroplanes
etching the sky. He cannot move an inch
convinced that it would cause him
to lose them from sight.
He found this extraordinary place
on his way to someone I should think of
when they flooded the air -
exploding summers in his ears.
His place under the sky
studying miracles through a lens.
I try to stand at the other end
and look him in the eye.
He stands there as they disappear
and areas unroll.
I choose this detail as I lay the table
for someone I want to come back.
I place it in the vast plane of nothingness
that the tablecloth becomes, unfolding into a room
that is the house we are about to share.
Do sit down.
This is new land we speak of
set against unspeakable seas.