I talk with you all week.
Golden leaf light, weak shafts of floury light, skittery light on a new stream's surface.
I talk with you all week long in person and not-person.
Though the night is dark it is full of stars. Though the night is dark it is full of colour. Every living thing pulsates, even in its farthests shadows. Atoms and god particles. Neutrinos. There is a grain to the world – I can see how the Subtle Knife might cut it. Everything has grain, everything is a bell curve on paper, everything randomises and organises in the same way.
I talk with you on this Tuesday when autumn slips briefly into a washy winter light, and three thirty marks the end of the day.
Clanky footsteps in the mud-loaded field, sodden dog.
All this is invented, embodied fantasy.
And why not. Agnes Martin's 'beauty in the mind'. Tuesday late morning. Rain thickens. Heart palpitations. Aerobie disc, boot slip. Gates and fencing. Badger sett. Dung piles.
I am talking to you and notice my muddy trousers. You reveal parts of myself.
Holyfields. Tree futures. World in a bottle.
The future brightens talking to you.
My love hath vowed he will forsake me,
And I am already sped.