The anodized sheen
Â
Â
                 of a lift door
is like a wet-wipe to my memory.
Â
I recall the drop down the streamlined
shaft of sibilance, my slip at the thought
Â
of the scalpel as it catches the pulse
of an LED light.
Â
See you on the other side.
No, this side. See you on this side.
RAIN, STEAM, SPEED
Â
‘And yet it moves’
Galileo
Â
Â
Clouds draw like curtains. Look at all the fog
and mist in Turner. Look at the
great industrial machine, or the natural
phenomena breezing through his liquid-
Â
silver veils. The half-clad inferno,
the proxy apocalyptic, impasto sea
spilling to impasto sky.
Turner. Subtle as a fish through the hand.
Â
An aperçu of where yesterday meets
tomorrow, where hare races steam train. Yet,
Turner is a man who knows what he wants.
Shipwrecks and storms, he tells you, gruffly.
Â
Then, like a cloud, he breaks away
scaling the long gasp of fresh terrain.
Â
STROW
for Andrew Strowman
Imagine going all the way to Ellis Island
for the sake of a suffix: -ski or -vinski
gazing through the archive windows
and seeing New York City not as a film
but as an impressionist painting
its many angles endless in the smog.