Sweet lovers love

By Iain Matheson

 

until the sudden white bird

(recalling that it is white

with the whiteness of a page)

 

looks away as if something

supposedly infinite

has come to an entire end

 

like the one word you know of

a language. Deft molecules,

the fresh scent of gravity

 

(what are these words doing be-

side themselves, for the moment

afloat, still, benevolent) –

 

we could go back to the start,

find some better title for

such a thing. A hum of air;

 

motionless cartographers

consider the presence of

imaginary corners

 

in what passes for silence.

Even the skilful robins

have decided not to sing

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