Weeks it's taken us to get [[here]],
the last few signs of a vast surah
which starts with the end
and now asks me, directly,
"What will make you realise
what the Day of Judgement is?"
and, when you think you've got it;
this [[moment]] right [[now]],
with the [[sea]]'s first winter rainbow
rippling into being:
"Again, what will make you realise
what the Day of Judgement is?"
As if each passing were something
all together different,
without meaning and there for meaning
full, felt in the deep huuu
of [[blue]] before me
abandoned and responding
by virtue of its emptiness:
this [[light]] [[heart]]
luminous, weighing nothing.
I press the pattern to my nose, threadbare and walked over by generations of my people, their footprints still [[here]] beneath the [[blue…
A oboe climbs the moving stairs carved by orange [[moon]] [[light]] and the balanced scales of orb and mighty ocean. Quite what this…
To program poetry with people as the signs that stream meaning through the collective mind requires that I am the most abject one. It's…
A butterfly just butted in and is being quite belligerent. I must begin to [[write]] , though what it is I cannot say, opening the…
Here is the perfect prison, made entirely by [[moon]] [[light]] moving [[through]] the wooden bars of my balcony as the baritone ocean…
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