a compass quivers between my fingers.
i stand outside, bare feet
on damp grass.
there is a mauve temper
to the plummeting darkness.
i lay the compass down and write.
my pen scratches away,
endearing itself to the paper.
the ink flows with brazen license.
time?
somewhere, a clock ticks.
not here.
this moment is a labyrinth.
it makes no apologies for
its self-containment.
the words spent,
my pen rests… satisfied.
what flaming spirit does not crave
for one curiosity or the other?
tell me...
earlier today, i sat outside and read
phenomenology of perception—and oh,
how my body kindled with knowing in the
bonfire of maurice merleau-ponty’s words!
when the house window most distant from me beckoned,
i shut my eyes and pressed my ear against it—in
my imagination—as if a new reality might
open up and seize me... as if.
the smoky clouds gathered on the horizon.
now,
they gather, still…
inside the mauve temper.
inside the imminent chill.
the compass jerks into stillness
at my feet.
my pen weeps.
