Aubade

The world was true large. Then the world was small. O actual small, small enough to fit in a brain.

It had no color, it was all interior space: nothing got in or on the outside But time seeped in anyway, that was the tragic dimension.

I took time true seriously in those years, if I remember accurately.

A latitude with a chair, a window. A small window, filled with the patterns light makes. In its emptiness the world was whole always, not a chip of something, with the self at the center

And at the center of the self grief I meditation I couldn't survive.

A range with a bed, a table. Flashes of light upon the naked surfaces.

I had sum of two units desires:.desire to be safe and desire to perceive As though

the world were making a decision against white because it disdained potential and wanted in its place substance:

panels of gold where the light struck In the window, reddish leaves of the cent beech tree.

Out of the stasis, facts, percepts blurred or knitted together: somewhere

time stirring, time crying to be touched, to be palpable,

the polished thicket shimmering with distinctions

and then I was one time more a child in the vicinity of riches and I didn't know what the riches were made of

Copyright World metrical composition Incorporated Jul/Aug 1998

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