My lungs are full with contemporaneity,
with the surrounding world;
bellows in life's posture
within the vast impartiality of life

I bolster myself,
rest with my folding rule,
check each morning, every night
if darkness has cut me short, or daylight has me prolonged

In dreams I climb upon the ruler
like angels on Jacob's ladder
with Alla Pugacheva & Jacob Dahlin

Hours seep into every cranny,
each hideaway,
without my interference

The flow doesn't need me
to flow,
nor time to time;
it craves no pastime
as I let go of duty;
let it flicker, drift & glide:

my body a castaway on the shore;
a hiddenling on Ithaca's hypnotic swell,
rocking & shushing 'tween galaxies
in anonymous solitude
at the long-fingered tides
beneath speeding comets and broken concertinas

My body delights inside its constution
in the dailiness of self-discipline,
and the full, though fragile, possession
of my mental faculties

Time loops around me
like a patrol car on a night shift,
but slips my notice
with these letters writhing
after just a few seconds –
underplates of so many years & worlds –
while I re-enter my bolsters
and drift deep-sleeping
out between the star clusters

(It frightens me
that I've caught up with so many books
I once left on the shelf
for a later version of myself...)