My weekly dosette box
– the size of a small harmonica,
in shape like a glasses case
with a flip-up, transparent lid –
gives me a temporal surprise every Sunday,
– and perhaps an insight into the transparent nature of time –
when it is to be filled for a week
with the tablets prescribed to me by Dr Stina Schell,
for the dosette box measures out the weeks in massive strides,
and these weeks flicker
out of futurum into imperfectum at a pace as rapid
as the epileptically risky flicker of dragging light
from a low autumn sun through the columned hall of the pine forest
on the late-afternoon training ride
on the road bike’s black carbon-fibre javelin,
and the days’ empty tabula rasa
thus turn into a seven-day palimpsest
of accumulated remnants; traces of passage;
a palimpsestum of memory fragments,
like shards of dreams,
or mythical narratives
from the depths of the unconscious’ cosmic sources,
as if I had slept between the Sundays

Yes, the dosette box is the vessel
that carries me from midsummer to Christmas,
from New Year to the haymaking

The breathing of time is felt in my fingertips
every Sunday,
when I pick the small prescribed ones
from their compartments
and place them out in equal measure,
seven times over,
in a kind of pharmacological seventh-day trance,
with the calendar peering over my shoulder

Yes, time comes per septenos,
transparent in the weekly dosette box’s glasses-case-like
harmonica-spans