i woke up in the dark feeling
everything in a day:
the Atlas mountains,
a family rage,
and good,
and soon—
meanwhile,
i’m bleeding laughter, and
oh dear, it’s a New Moon
returning from six
Decembers ago.
where i thought i’d be:
empty and surrendered.
where i am,
i can’t
remember.
this is why i keep diaries.
lying on the floor for ages, for centuries,
i’m suddenly awakened by the news
that we made it at last to June;
this halfway house of burn out, like the incessant
moon splinters in crescendo.
note to self:
the night is essential (so the scientists say)
but all i’m convinced by is that it’s time to take up
howling again.
to listen to the wolves we killed, our ancestors
who, without hope or god, just man
and his horror, called on each other
to gather and remained till the end
together.
today,
there is no geography
that feels obvious or
distant or simple enough
as Sunday morning
unfolding colour by colour
against the tree-felled floor,
wanting nothing from me
but peace.
the pulse of it, steady.
like carrier pigeons homing
over terracotta
rooftops
and the messages from heaven
they carry are all too slow to reach us,
and we are forced to make our
decisions without guidance,
so we choose to stay
in bed, instead
watching the world
spin wreck-less
through our windows
round the sun
dancing,
empty.
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xx - Mai