in the country of the blind

an ear as glutinous as a kiss 
clings to the side of the hill

on the shelf below the earthenware water jug
suns give birth and flourish and fade away
and on the table not far from the broken fan
lies a subterranean pen

spiders with blades of amber and sea-polished glass
cling to the window pane
like a drunken man might cling to the kissing-booths
that stretch in a row from the wainscot to touch the hand
that in turn is touching a hand that is touching a hand
and the hands are folded together like folded air
in sheets of woven light

they illuminate the improbable jelly mould
that creeps into our homes in the dead of night
on any day in any possible land
and hides behind our pillows which then explode
in a bouquet of wings and ribbons of sealing-wax
and spread their pools of mercury and tar
over the houses and children and gramophones
the antique gramophones with the horns of lead
and ankle boots that you only see in films
for no-one could wear them 
no-one would dare to be seen
marmalade and the odour of musty rooms
and blossoms of mouse-grey phlegm

and the house is full of buckets and weighing-machines
and the fireflies that gather wherever the world grows thin
and the cuttlefish that knock against the roof
are dearer to us than our bones

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