Peter Riley
The telephone box on the edge of the cornfield
Letters and numbers spray from our minds,
Settle on the wires in unbroken code. The car
Sees everything with two hollow eyes,
Sees there is nothing to see but signs
At choices. This is what our minds
Are reduced to, living in this world.
So we get out and stand by the field leaning
On the box and light breezes play the
Corn like Mbira. There is red and slight
Blue undertext, disclosed where least
Expected from time to time.
And the heart is said to be a
Rare blue object in a red matrix
Surrounded by the yellow goods.
Consuming and lashing strokes. On the
Border of which a mind or surface
Pauses, keeping all this together.
Page(s) 4
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