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

Will satisfy

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

This cup

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,

Park architecture,

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