Three Poems

From the Tate

Tell the paintness of the real,
the saturated world wrapped
around this threshold.

How buttery the river is.
A flutter of greys. Crimson
smears routed over the bridge.

Snails consume the self
in scrawling; my footprints
dissolve in the warm glaze

on these paving stones;
a passage trails light
across the largest canvas.


Cours Belsunce: a Course in Good Sense

When I was young, my grandmother told me
If you want to live long,
eat garlic every day.

Violet, dry, renowned good-keeper.
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