The Glassmaker (For Gaby, an Ekphrasis)
My dearest friend, you killed us with your love
You buried us in sand, lit a bonfire
Birthed us into a window to see through
You See
Stillness as an impossibility
Maintenance of this pose
For makers
Who labour on the outskirts, they’re makers
Of interfaces, makers of gluten droplets
Makers of rotten fruit light
Makers of sweet things written in sun ink
Of fluffy boats for preserves and butter
Who hold
The technology of ancient remnants
Of dinner, ash, crumbs, and early mornings
Essentially an art of containment
—However unarmed—
Glassmakers are wizards who translate heat
Perform accidents of love and play tricks
On depth, only to see flatness better
Who produce darkness but never a void
A void, single mass, dense immensity
In it, there are innumerable globes, challenging
Flatness
No one here’s cast in the other’s likeness
But by way of the forms we wear for others
Not alone, but in symbiosis
Alone together
In serial appraisal
- Written on the occasion of Gabriele Beveridge’s exhibition at Native, Perpignan,11 September – 24 September 2019