08 December 2012

on waking

Eve slaps the three skulls on her chest
chastising the violence of stars
punched light stuttering through incomprehensible velocity
dead already
as I watch with my two good anchors
ballast of the balls of my feet
bedrock in harmony with solitude
it's a quiet night
I'm smoking my last cigarette
pulling my collar around the base of my skull
it's fleeced lining
combing over the shaved edges of my hair
the more I look
the more I crease the fold of my body
each cervical vertebrae 
is of consequence
I concertina
to breathe in Vega and Etamin
becoming rooted in balance
legs in a perfect V
aligned to the night
I am open to star dust
sound of cold wind through bare branches 
sharp somehow 
in this leaning 
by the briefness of nothing
unpolluted for the slimmest 
in the season of this thought
Eve slaps the three skulls on her chest
her nephews jumper
as she says goodnight
we let the candles burn
into the tin diameter of their presence
in the morning
split pupils
irises of pleated wax
the profound act of waking