nothing - but this
the world falters -a graceless stutter- and dissolves. unviolent, quite subtle. a soft unpicking of thread- the slip of fabric through thought. words unstring themselves. un-grasp-able, a delicate
refusal. in this undoing death ceases. spirit reigns. flesh pools on the mattress, dense and red and useless. don’t look - the sun guttered out
two weeks ago - the light is a ghastly white substitute.
meaning flees and leaves in its wake a quiet anarchy
and in my dreams I stand at the edge of the sea. the water is cool. the sky is impossibly vast. a heron stands, stock still, watching for fish amid rock. and meaning, still, is absent (but here I am glad of it). I watch the clouds come and go and think of nothing- nothing- but this.
oh, one day I will open my eyes-
and for a moment cannot quite make out the divide between
the real and the dream and the red and the water and the sky-
but somewhere, far away, the sun will blink without fanfare into the world and life will begin,