My lungs are full with contemporaneity,

with the surrounding world;

bellows in life's posture

within the vast impartiality of life

I bolster myself,

rest with my folding rule,

check each morning, every night

if darkness has cut me short, or daylight has me prolonged

In dreams I climb upon the ruler

like angels on Jacob's ladder

with Alla Pugacheva & Jacob Dahlin

Hours seep into every cranny,

each hideaway,

without my interference

The flow doesn't need me

to flow,

nor time to time;

it craves no pastime

as I let go of duty;

let it flicker, drift & glide:

my body a castaway on the shore;

a hiddenling on Ithaca's hypnotic swell,

rocking & shushing 'tween galaxies

in anonymous solitude

at the long-fingered tides

beneath speeding comets and broken concertinas

My body delights inside its constution

in the dailiness of self-discipline,

and the full, though fragile, possession

of my mental faculties

Time loops around me

like a patrol car on a night shift,

but slips my notice

with these letters writhing

after just a few seconds –

underplates of so many years & worlds –

while I re-enter my bolsters

and drift deep-sleeping

out between the star clusters

(It frightens me

that I've caught up with so many books

I once left on the shelf

for a later version of myself...)