Come for me,
Come, take my hand
I ask you again –
you cough and tense
Your wrack is my wrack
We squirm together
Wrack in late middle English meant wreckage, and to be wracked is, in my mind, to convulse.
Here the ouroboros wreck hovers in the deep sea, holding its diamond door to the dawn, the following day on some island, the warm breeze and the sun – may it caress us and the waves roar faintly like wind in a storm, but much friendlier.
It’s a stormy day to end a poem, and to illustrate it with a dark final image. But, like the algorithm, an author takes the surroundings, the words which structure it, and associations, and structures of apprehension, and builds them into the shape of itself. Here’s a last painting, and a last poem, as a charm to ward off the rain and the night, like a coal stove in a moored canal boat which rocks in the wind whilst lovers embrace within.