One
As you orientate and re-orientate in the wet far, we are wet with you, out, out there
Without, with the many, crawling under a loud tradition of creeping landmarks and pedestrian stars.
Cheered on by those of us for who this is an art without ends, a means to measure by four hands and twenty toes
The scratchy land between a pair of knees and blistered thumbs. It means staying low to the ground, in slippery roles,
Mapping organs and dragging pipes through fierce forces, until – something – something comes of the gravity of all our varied situations,
Attraction and relevance pushed face down in a field before paid witnesses and paying customers,
While ranged against the blank your Argos of cameras catalogues, (walking the eye of a fly).
The horizon, sliced by the titan edge, finds its way under the costume and hurts the field you plough,
Fleecing the river of its sheen and crushing the grassland into wiring.
You carry technology like tics, releasing information in plasma streams.
And there we sink, the only certain things the gesture of your sheepskin and the sun stuck speared on a stem
While you, unhinged, tread on an ear here and a nerve there. You’re a compound eye on webbed legs crawling for us
From beneath the table of the burning mountain; among those who write their walks with lines, or binary treads, for us
You thread a whole robot through the heather, over rushes and into nitrogen green and move the mountain down towards
The flat lands of our pages, screens, lawns, playing fields, desks and Monopoly boards. You baa.
You suck up the soil by spilling a little blood, and in the exchange of views we profit to the tune of feelings
Made visible from the stitched and rounded vista near at hand to the eye on the things afar.