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Shiny Disco Balls




For Hervé Guibert, on his birthday, after Bernadette Mayer


I fail at making a clementine cake. Still, in November, light that seems to hate what it points out about everyone yelling in their coats. Family, I assume. Emptied colorlessly out into morning. Someone else opens a book, thinly, poetry, or prayer, but really, no difference.


Sheets against remnants of sunset, hot pink, I feel lucky to catch on video. 


Desire for love. I already cleaned. The moon conjunct death. 


Trying to forgive, starting too late, having gone to spiral at the table. 


Hungover from exposure while reading until she arrived, in her orange coat, making me forget what was going on. When I looked, she did too, quietly as a bowl. 


Husband in such clothes, knowing no other way to be around.


Salt in the bread, no one minded but me.


The hierophant: a poem by Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge, described by C.D. Wright as a circuitous route to the horizon. The time it takes: crucial.


Something made me take a piece of metal into the yard. Perhaps writing can have less to do with moving, and more to do with pointing, or feeling, without anything happening, like making a sound that shapes another sound that comes in from outside.


In the middle of a house neither of us ended up renting, me in my blue dress, it was humid. 


Reading about film while knowing nothing about what makes a good print, but imagining the process with Chantal Akerman activates me, or undoes. Turquoise so bright it hurts. Nothing happens but you can feel it when you let it by expecting nothing. I hesitate to return to her prose, excruciating in its clarity, I remember saying on the phone in the rain, brutal, like glass.


Poem that skates while someone leaves. Poem that fails. When I look up from the book, grid cutting, interrupting, blue, making me want it to be too hot to touch, a drastic event.


Eating toast like a saint.


To risk being still in order to attend to light. Peach in a rectangle on the cabinet. Aquamarine above tile. I love these bottles in the window. 


I simply wanted to know that someone beautiful was talking about me.

Caroline Rayner wrote The Moan Wilds (Shabby Doll House, 2023)

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