Jennifer Atkinson

Anish Kapoor, At the Hub of Things, 1984 In larval dark, an early instar of music, blue Burns cold in uncreated space, bloomingInaudible, un-auroral, into the almost visible spectrum The first low indigo note, under the silence, a thrum.The odor of overripe fruit blown close in summerDusk. Heavy with sugar, purplish in its cloud of …

As hollow as a gutted fish, a hole in the sand, a cistern cracked along the seam— There is no filling such emptiness. And yet— Stitch it shut. Pour and pour, if you wish. Wish and wish, but it’s wasted— Water carried to the garden in your cupped palms. Might as well seal an ember …