Slack bones, sunlight filters from the motionless
window: hands moving through time
or along a neck… Night is gone.
I wonder if this all was awaiting
for me to waken,
I wonder where I wandered
while my eye-socket was throbbing
and gristles were grinding.
Is my breath being recorded
over some rickety detuned piano air?
In these moments I feel
like moving through uncoordinated scraps of proceedings,
dripping-dry from a cutting sickle
into unsteady footprints
likewise arcane globular stigmas round a cyclic
and cynical circle.
An inkling of deceptive waters.
Whether I’ve been fleeing or I’ve been pursuing,
but I was feeling thirsty,
and my fingers were moving just to con my own eyes.
So, it’s possibly me who’s writing now…
Imagining you writing something about me
imagining me writing something about you.