Open 11am to 8pm
Royal Festival Hall (Level 5), Southbank Centre, LondonOpen Tuesday - Sunday from 11am to 8pm
Artwork by Paul Peter Piech, 1991. Words by Arakida Moritake. © the Estate of Paul Peter Piech
The fat clock ticks and ticks and ticks and tells
Me stuff I didn’t want to know I knew.
Across a million billion windowsills
The stellar dust is whispering of you.
A Balkan website that I can’t access
Texts messages to the Uranian rings.
Since Tuesday last American Express
Are threatening unimaginable things.
A changeling with an enormous head,
A forky tail and huge, prehensile claws,
Is swinging at the bottom of my bed
And doesn’t seem to want to stay indoors.
Call me. I’m waiting for your call. What’s done
Is done. There’s nothing here for anyone.
I came to the small peach of a month,
to the bushel of days,
to a cairn of minutes
where time was buried
I came to the September of a second
where trees stood so close together
they looked like the last night of all
I came to the latchkey of the moon,
to the source of rue
No one saw me perched on the wrist of the world,
no one saw me flying to such heights
or knew how long till I came back again,
like crimson returning to god
Our cells reply as petals do –
beflowering the nervous
byways. Gusts shake
loose: bestrew a mind’s
street corners. If hail should
pass – it will thaw quickly as
we do. This blood tight in its
arteries second by
second taking us
to heart may be loosed
in that simple space between
two beats of thought. Nothing
lost. Spring prepares
that tender and
final passage –
gathers us (soft tendrils
that we are) back to the root.