r e e d f r a m e

5. (photo from April 2004, developed in March 2005 – Pineda de Mar)

The wind dropped, the rain scoured away to the south;
reed-stems lay on the tideline and in the space of the relaxed sands
I made my cabin, knotting them 2.5m in the air.
Technically you could wriggle in, like a tomb-canopy or a bird-table.



6. (bedding in the poles 11/4/2004 written 7/3/2005)

I grasped them at the throat and jumping sagging lodged them deeper.
His puffy tracksuit ignores me, bands above the elbows; his eyes

take the family out on the inconstant French lake. Alicia’s bedside,
cluttered with pills; a sculpture and a democrat, even his dog.




7. (parascending behind the top-knot, same dates)

Open the sky as when you look up and your eyes open
from a book you nodded over. Pampas on the littoral goes

high, not very high. Nor that man, babyseat above the surf. Whiter,
ulterior, the camera is drunk in the square of cloud-fashion-detail.



8. (the same – 8/3/2005)

Next to the sea it pressed. Clubbed ascenders
and rude ligature hung on in the way of persons

who happened next, we range widely in the advent
before the next squall for the glister of our reasons.



9. (Another – 9/3/2005)

Let go the latticework and pedalled into Pineda, was an angle
to the shore. You see it is a ghost-house thick with

snaking ghosts; here you can say as at the jutting of a post,
“Let’s walk back again,” and also “Let’s go somewhere else.”