The rain weeps rust through summer heat,
calls out its praise for greenery. “Who,”
I ask, “is my inventor?”
Scarlet shreds of paper light
Hold me in this double space
Read me into asteriks
Snow or star or
* One frame of reference
* One burnt-up meteor
Creator Said
I want to lie on the walls of the museum
*
Confined to the wall and confirmed by the wall,
increased by the wall and recognised.
The ripple of these fingertips
and underneath a fingertip,
and through an eye and in a dream,
the structure of a strand of sleep,
an object and an observation,
Birth, because I visualize a body.
Sue Ann SIMAR
“Creator Said” first appeared in Passager.