Michael Roberson		Untitled (for Tom Wayman)  I left the house and came to the workshop to work  even though the light’s only natural I must stand to write on a flat surface  I have brought the herbs in with me to the keep warm in summer cool by storms  Smelling caked dirt which does not smell dirty I laugh at other rusts and scratches stains and drips  A bicycle chain hangs its face all it needs is the master link  Cob webs & exposed insulation catch or resemble the evening  audiences of heads motionless hair agape  I keep the old ice cream bucket of bent nails because I appreciate solidarity  even over the time it takes to warp and sag and pose exposed  An old bouquet from the rafters dried already given up the ghost of living rooms  Not concerned being pressed for time immemorial  A robin watches me with my back to the door I hear him fidget on the fence boards “Too square” he thinks  And the old circuit panel board keeps it switches upright even though mice   on their way back to the pile of boards have chewed the wires   The boards remainders from a dismantling too waiting to be reunited with the nails  some in the ice cream bucket resting on the pink shelf  the one sacrificed to the test of colour  the one eventually used for the drawers that used to reside in the second bedroom  now an office full of books and a desk		Until (for Lisa)  Between the garden and this page I read the sputter the world brings by way of light machines  un’tiling  Turned by hand and spade essential a firm foot and inertia continues to the root and stops  My hands stop technically no more work  un’tiled  If I soak my hands in a bowl of water it looks like tea  When my nails are clean and the water settles there is no message to read just a smooth silt and vagrant water  I watch the Spring come by winks after the lash of Winter each day a bit more   un’til   the cheek swells the eye by moon by day teary glaze