Photo by Vladimir Fedotov on Unsplash
Interval 101
first step, to take up the pen,
ponder it,
as instrument—
a piece of paper then,
as white and infinite
as the light—
a question, as to when you were,
what century born in,
what now become—
a breath, as deep
as the first intake
of the cold in the air—
a memory, of the cry
your body
brought into the world—
a further clearing
of the throat,
for the cry to be heard—
a folding away of the light,
day after day,
night after night
Interval 103
A trace of self, left there in the last smile,
the wave as she turned away. Torn
from your attention, a space opened up
in the flesh, a missing person.
A walk with the rest of yourself, to see
what remained of the world that was,
whether it felt the same, to sit with a coffee
by the window in the same café.
A word from the waitress, warmth
unrewarded, the dark stare of the cup
up towards you, staring back, as if
it were a well, with an answer.
A stir of thought, the one thought,
the bitter taste to your silent tongue.
Interval 114
Day, by way of night
to wake, with eyes
closed, for want
Curtains drawn, fast
against the light
Some fact, inaccessible to mind
and matter alike,
lying there, grinding it
to the nothing of dust
Thought, wearing itself
away, from somewhere
to nowhere, trying
To draw the morning up,
out from the well
Of the worlds within