Spaces and Dust
thin envelope of air,
and a fear of death
that stops us living,
are things we all share.
I inhabit space
behind a cellar door -
geographically nowhere much.
The door is a curtain of sun-
construction a selection of fragments,
sprung green fern, fragrant degradation.
My mighty arms are combed
with stents and probes,
underlashed by equatorial pipes.
We are between spaces -
height - depth -
left - right -
hemispheres of chance
drenched with light, borders tied
with chants and prayers.
Wonder-bound, our wounds
are mined with wire and sound -
blooms of colour
amid fear and deafness.
Deities of indecision,
how the dust settles
in the loss of momentum,
like flies on a carcass.

