My pulse is strong in morning meditations, a neglected rhythm;
find a blank page, a reliable pen, put ink on paper, repeat.
Nothing is truer than a rush of words, moments when – on your hands,
skin, any makeshift slate or canvas, another’s arm or forehead – you simply must!
The day is locked in my glass table top, I only need look down
to see blue skies reflective, to predict a change in the wind.
He plays Sudoku, wrestles with numbers; I read the newspaper –
wrestle with untimely deaths in another landscape.
No machine gun-fire in these clouds, only brown-tinged leaves,
flowers to deadhead and the passing season to mourn.
A brown bird visits, knocks on the neighbouring window
like an expectant guest, and his crew awaits for stirring of other life.
There is a kind of bustle in days with no page breaks, a constancy
to fill in these short chapters with some sensible prose, to maintain order.
Today is a white page, like any day, but blinding
like a blizzard it tosses me to the furthest corner; a rolled ball.
We start in mid-elipses... after an evening of wine and dance, still floating
on white-dressed sentiments and exchanging our own silent vows on ivory pillows.
He stumbles out of our sheets with a scratchy throat,
his eyes not yet in, and a coating of dreams too short.
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