Grey Matter: Three Poems by Adam Steiner
These poems are reimaginings of ordinary everyday scenes dissected into trace elements of sand, brick, flesh, earth and how they become more animated and visceral to the eye if we give them the time of looking and reflection.
In Lieu of a Visit
It arrived, face-first;
An open bloom
-severed at the stump-
Its address to a flower
In name only
Bleached blind
The spectral anaesthetic
Stares from its empty stead,
Wan flesh caught
Between seeping indecisions
At losing edge
Seeks its wandering scent
Worm waves hole-punch laces
Tie future rust to
A corrugated grave.
The atomic hearth,
still-beating heat,
Now lies buried beyond sleep
Grinding brightness from hollow grin
To sink without falling
Punctuates the aimless state
Of dirt heaped into earth
-inverted-
Turned upon its turning,
And taken root
With its name.
Sandbags
[An open letter to Simon Dudley of Windsor]
From every morning's first morning
The first as the last
Shoulders brushed past time
Gathered in scattering scuff-
Driven waves, bodies swelled to future dust
Throw themselves against landlocked sleepers
Where the small shrink smaller
Edged into creases,
Wearing-out yesterday’s shapes
Shadows refuse to fade.
Working the patched slabs
Itching the beach beneath
Doorways spilt ink of maybe-faces'
rain-bloated stomachs blush to
Half-moon bruises gathered collapse
Into one heap without count
How many grains the tides are pushed to pull,
Standing-to shadows fill work with weariness
-LET THEM HAVE SHOVELS-
Where desperation digs its own grave
Thickened numb in winter coats
Casual breaths invade dreams of sleep
Our give-and-take comes and goes
To occupy killing time in vacant space
After spent footprints
Become the sandbags’ passing share
That won’t be washed away.
Grey Matter
No-one sees
The blind-maker
Undo colour from light,
Blunted shapes shelf-stacking
Censorship of idle stone,
The blackout hides
In plain sight
Brute as a shadow
Stamps its feet
Block-building day
By night
Black mirrors stare blind
Swallow seasons whole,
Make a full stop from sun,
Drip-running life dry.
Ghosted gestures still
Fizzing after silence
Chase through their shadows
It is this much truth
We shall inherit:
Where every mark I made
Has become time unspent.