Biennale, After Magritte
Consciousness regarded as an empty window
interrupted by the distant flight of a bird
or a cloud in tempera on eggshell-blue gesso
offers a crossroads of possibilities
you can always call internalised,
at least if you’re writing a poem.
And if you’re not
you can draw on garbled memories of King Kong and Godzilla,
the hunter-observer snug in his hide
in the fork of the tree by the swamp
while low in the corner of the flickering screen
the horrible thing rises and reaches out,
all the more terrifying
for being, really, so shoddily put together.
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