I sit by the window and the world washes over.
The sea at my window, curling,
and I am still.
There is pain:
something pulled out of me, some great uncertainty.
Forgotten on the street, and the day moves forward,
tracked by the movement of sun, the strokes of winter light.
I bring in laundry, warm from the line.
The clock bears out the steady rhythm of decay,
and life again.
The days are slim.
Hours with their questions, how to speak from one to another without the heavy thrill of strangeness.
My body is not my own, it bends,
it is bent. By the sea
by the river
against the rain.
Far out in the desert
with the stars overhead, speaking, what do they say?
What do they mean by this stillness which crowds at my ears, and is not untangled,
which is rough with my heart?
I am broken and fall back into the earth.
The sea coats my spine, a voice hums into me,
I am awake and dreaming, rigid with night.
Voices all about and it is just my voice, just a different kind of speaking.
Harder in my ears now, and I crack, I splinter, I forget my name.
I hold this hand in mine, arms taut and twisting and at the
gentle pressure of a fingertip, undone.