The Co-ordinates of the Heart
December 15, 2020
One cannot say even where one is
There is nothing to set your sights on which
That normal drift, the commonplace expectation
Of being someone somewhere.
Here in a chair
I might be at the centre of a universe
But what might that intend?
A figure decides for sidelines by an attitude of mind
In a sanctuary of insignificance
For a sanatorium cure, a fevered abdication,
That claws for rights, but relegates associate collusions
Of their dutiful accounting;
Undetermining investigative resolution
And whom should one choose to be?
When nowhere as one’s self one’s at the bottom of
Its syrup shall contain resource to think among
And condiment which stains the mouth to drink in rich,
Opaque of flavour
What plane germane, departing point, what bottom basin
Stratum emplacement, sets the stop, concedes
Believes itself on bedrock?
Who, where, we are, oracular
This container is a scene where you set out a space,
Suppose it for presence; shutters cut all segue out
Moors fettled ambience
A locker wherein to go lids turbid indecision’s
Here in your cordon sought and caught, delivers only payloads
Of the certainties of fiction
Cornered converse on coverings; spans by radii held back