Embedded Files
After ‘Spring Snow’
For Peter RobinsonAfter ‘Spring Snow’
Someone has come between you and me
and the big picture: the Japanese girl
who turns away from it all
and endeavours to shut
the door of her cab, the hack
in which she was hoping to flee
the extinction event,
the singularity of light
that sizzles on the smoking nitrate.
Not a cab.
A Model T Ford. Its period interior
cooked up in Jeff Wall’s Vancouver,
where the pilotless ships
from Kowloon and Kobe
economize by never stopping,
slowing instead to a shuddering throb
while the great containers
levitate, rising up of their own accord
like Warhol’s silver balloons,
filling the air as if
they were filled with air
instead of widgets
and mobility scooters,
frying pans and superconductors,
as if they were leveraged
by nothing at all, or by something
as thin as the hiss that leaks
from the security guard’s discreet earpiece
as he comes between you and me
and the big picture.
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