In many ways, would I fly
die,
revile,
this here and now before me.

Like a dream, I see it bouncing
some astral cord pulling
at the death of me
from the other side.

Tempest, Hurricane, Earthquake,
forget your grief
as yours is mine, these shocks shine
dark star matter, assembling
precursors to dawn.

Only here, as the world turns in some revolution
toward that day
can I  strictly analyse
a dew drop's surface tension.

The hours, days or lives, progressing
toward their end,
their inborn revival torn halfway
from
an ice rink figure 8.

(whisper) Eid, Hanaka, Xmas, more, more
still I suspend my disbelief
and think
in morning theatres of war.

You ask to grasp the moment slipping and you find
some other sequence missing
from the collection
...lost my mind...

Did distance bring you to the boil?
did answer machines queue your call?
Or, would you -over again - have it all
to echo all your prayers?

The rising sun -imagine it
The longest night when starlight lit
the faint stream of your own piss
upon the frosty ground.

You might have slept and missed it all
or died and asked forgiveness
or felt the world unenlightened by its untrustworthy heart.
After all that, your longest night
would be right
about where you might
first think to start.
 
 

22/12/01