portion of the artwork for Carter Vance's poem

Clean Places
Carter Vance

If there is some grander notion,
to these ether trailings
of sunlight across splendour brick
clicking of chatter heels against
stone, then it is unrevealed
against the washing of winter
coat flows, as much so as
under watchful burning
space of warmer times.

There may yet be some clockwork
design to the patching of curtain
draws on days too blank to
pass inside, yet still too knife-showing
to venture out.

Then go to some places, scrubbed
down and seeing to welcome,
but filed down from all threat,
tensed of all teeth-bearing exercise,
in the contemplation of old air
where you could belong.

Not even there, though, was
a planning pen found amid
rubbish bins, hesitant tea cups,
broken spindle casing,

there being no sketchbook
tracing of myself in famed
rooms.


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FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry | Issue 52 | Fall/Winter 2018