by Gideon Burton
The screen is melting under heavy light,
is melting with the images of suns
unshadowed, elemental, overdone
without the milk of darkly cooling night.
It melts like liquid sand, like clotted cream,
(unlike the hot felicity of skin)
descends in lines of darkened ivory, thin,
acidic, flaccid, dormant, quiet, mean
as televison frayed with grayish snow
or winter skies whose blotched and spotty rows
enmesh all sounds within their dampened glow.
The lump of light perspires as it grows
to heat, to bursting at its comet core.
We turn away, and then turn back for more.
Photo: flickr - didier.goas
