A low, dense day, shorn of tinsel
and the great bauble of the sun –
the air clings like an unwanted lover,
the spaces between the points
in these digital hours lose form
as soon as they’re suggested.
So much of life is expectation,
the will to imagine a future,
as if now were not all there ever was.
Still, I don’t doubt the earth will turn
and the sun will seem to rise
whether I’m here to share the illusion
The mind scrambles input, remixes
and dethrones it all for
want of diversion, the past recedes
behind us exactly as far as we bother
to imagine it, and the future
disappears within our grasp, like some
bitter-sweet version of cotton candy.
And yet, when the doorbell rings
I rush to answer it.