The anodized sheen
of a lift door
is like a wet-wipe to my memory.
I recall the drop down the streamlined
shaft of sibilance, my slip at the thought
of the scalpel as it catches the pulse
of an LED light.
See you on the other side.
No, this side. See you on this side.
RAIN, STEAM, SPEED
‘And yet it moves’
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-
silver veils. The half-clad inferno,
the proxy apocalyptic, impasto sea
spilling to impasto sky.
Turner. Subtle as a fish through the hand.
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.
Then, like a cloud, he breaks away
scaling the long gasp of fresh terrain.
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.