I shut my face in my palms
in the odd damp night
where words fall like a breeze
out of a closet.
And my eyes are air-tight
like a wood-box treasure chest
that’s locked and has no key
so that even Schrödinger’s cat can’t get back in!
And the moon is sloshed out like a shipwreck in the sky!
And behind shut eyes now…
there are petals, colours, forming
like orbs growing stronger in my clairsentient mind’s eye
And they envelope the embodiment of words that make my spirit
The night falls away…
And the colours take me…
Where did I see them before…?
Where did I feel their fabric…?
In a child’s imagination imprinted from an old picture book?
In a glorious tale handed down to me in the corridors of infancy by Mum?
Or much before the womb, much before…
An old life glittering at me like starlight
bathing me when the sun goes down
and the moon is limp behind a cloud
and the sky becomes a four-dimensional canvas
from which I can draw out….
And I see myself, an innumerable selves
walking among the echelons of the past
telling their stories…as if history was always made up of me…of my lives
And I am at once dreaming, like a bard in an everglade
And I am at once cut all over with a cutlass
And I am not bleeding, but all those wounds are screaming….!
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