A dazzling white sheet from afar. A blade shines from horizon to horizon, its light much too white for the eye. Light leaching out of it. Mild, variegated, lacking definition; but with a hard frosty glitter in the distance. Milk and dirt heaving rhythmically, water breathing in and out. Heavy easterly, the water brown with silt inland, and pale green further off, clashing waves in your face. Swirling muck in the shallows. Bumpy and glittering, then clean and clear.

An intending surfer undresses by his car. A detective orders you to get rid of my books. He’s a cross between Sean Bonney and José Mourinho, but actually the opposite of both. Huge and green and billowing, with Hurricanes and Messerschmidts pursuing each other madly above it in gathering clouds.

On the the sixth day there is a rainbow, made from the emissions of disintegrating aircraft.

It’s a kind of crescendo, I call it the sea.

(from Bardo, since published (2011) by Knives Forks & Spoons Press - this piece dedicated to Lee Harwood)