I Only See Things When They Move

I stole the title of this poem from this guy. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Olafur_Eliasson

This photo is from The Weather Project at the Tate Modern in 2003.

He has a show at PS1 until June 30. I want to go. http://www.ps1.org/ps1_site/content/view/311/102/

I Only See Things When They Move

Restless construction,
your grievances
shake your frame

in unflattering
ways. I have been
dreaming of ballrooms

where everyone is
dancing like whirlpools
and when they tire,

couples sit and kiss
on couches that move
like whirlpools.

I have conversations
but am unable to hear
the other voice. Green-line

guard, you are the keeper
of depositing places
and relief. Low

ridicule, your potted
hands in dirt and roots,
your anisette coating

knocked back briskly.
Our movements under
the microscope show

steepled edges with no
mysterious cry
that adhere

to the surface
when made to adhere.
There is no misconception;

testimonials bore
bookcases; things are
getting worse.

Brief tidings
jut out from
suspension bridges

but aren’t mentioned
until they swing
loose. I am

encouraging applause
because it is pleasing
to be in agreement,

in red velvet
saddles, provocateurs
of the fourth wall.

Then a flurry
of clay pigeons,
canary-sweet

then scattered,
blankets
the entire scene.

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