To frame memory.
To frame intimacy.
To wall-in space and the absence
the space our minds fill-in
to make sense of here and there—
what Heidegger would call “nearness”
To hollow-out the middle ground
like so many childhood
forming a house or ocean
out of the seemingly dots of red.
And that summer we drank whole bottles of dry vermouth
redistributing those disembodied selves around our rooms
like so many drip-castles winding the shore of existence,
more communicative of the passage of time in the image’s
closeness & warmth then the turning of suns that lapses our way
of being to mere consciousness. Bottles like Wednesdays or
Advent or baseball season toppling gestures of time to solidity.
Into a here and a now,
the soul & body shaping
absence into positive space,
into a mental space,
and in the shaping, inhabiting;
stroke and blur into line and colour,
not mere dash of acrylic rouge on canvas
but the peal and age
of worn-out paint
and the stain of paint.
A rust-bitten structure
of the proximity of things.
A certain pealing of memory.