Waking this morning unable to remember what day it was
And thinking that days are only sticky labels of names
For each blob of 24 hours, abstract and badly chosen
Since only when I wake or sleep is important.
Spaces of consciousness interspersed by darkened ramblings
In a small form of death could occur in any sort
Of pattern.
Days of sleep and stretched interludes of brightness,
Small sparks awake, when the world turns in shadow
I’ll be dancing under day-glo lights on wet boards by the coast
Or roam for more hours than light should give us
Across American plains of ropegrass and thirst, eyeballs burning out
From too much sky and not enough closing.
Days form junctions or are they joinless like the story
Of books in a sequence when you cannot remember if the character
Even paused while you put one down and took up the second?
Moments passing like missed trains tug me after
To move through time not in days of Gods’ names
Or coloured seasons or labelled pages
But in blind steps, too high to care, in bloody spurts from pain to joy
With the dips unnoticed in between.
