Under Day-Glo

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.