Just one prayer
To answer, to become.
Deus grew higher.
As if to see it.
And the prayer
Diminished. Next
To other questions.
Matter
In the mount of my life
I feel knowledge locking up
In sedimenting strata
The work of geologists
Not mine, to excavate
So much with so few clues
Osteo blues
Old bones can’t carry my phone
My feet creak over stones I want.
My friends have knees that bend
In tune with their rhythm. I sit.
Bent over the table, un-synced.
Brain listening to myself compare
My first finger to my friend’s bent
Easily round a cup, a book, a phone.
Mine throbs at my side,pocketed
In shame: chipolata he named it.
It hurts, it’s morphing into some
Old thing, a witch’s wand, longer
Than the other one.
Ancient bowls
In the place we call our souls
Mythology is born, we the ancient
Roads are living in the past already
A history that is no more real than
Our ancestors were to us. The mix
Of milk and kin that creeks along the
Veins of life from the first bowl made
Of iron ore scalped out from a meteor
They saw and knew was solid enough
To last forever, to be buried treasure
For millennia until the people lost to
Their own time puzzled over the simple
Things that belonged to other people’s
Present, separated by sediment and
Changing weather and passings of things.
Appointment
A cardiologist, an endocrinologist, a neurologist, an admin person, a student and an obstetrician.
All waiting, all read my history, ‘And so how many weeks pregnant are you, is it 8 or 9 weeks?”
“I’m not pregnant unless there’s something you know and I don’t”.
Laughter, sideways looks, “So sorry, it’s the new IT system”
“Stay up to date with your COVID flu jabs and 150 minutes of exercise a week”
New Year begging
On my second disposable cup of the morning.
Gave a homeless woman called Chanel a banana and an orange I’d bought for myself.
She accepted the orange, with the stunted gratitude of a prisoner.
Everyone is trying to get to work, few want to.
Is it new?
In this world, a few days into a year
We look back to look forward
Our old eyes are used to new years
But where are we looking?
Through film, a film of years
Thicker with each new year
Little detail
Little owl called
Athena Noctua also occasionally
Wakes by day.
Day 15. Camino
A light. A follicle in the darkness.
But not enough for life, yet.
I’m walking towards it, but it
Grows fainter under my watch.
Day 14. Camino
The search for my body
Continues.
Can ritual give it shape
Once more. A walking.
Being Every Day 