The Prime Mover
The room is permeated in blue
since it was painted in blue, so in the dark
the very space between was iridescent
blue—the empty placeholder between
the computer, my face.
It is night and I feel a sky
even in that space, a yawning wind before
a storm like a grand maw inhaling.
My eyes focus on nothing in the visual
field but the fields, they multiple under
an azure sky. Winter fields matte white,
fresh snow down to a calm body of water.
Circles of sound hit me from fields foreign
to the moment. Cat’s claws on the carpet.
The CN freight-line moving north. Music.
Indecipherable music pulling the blue
out and replacing it with gray. Nightshirts
splashing on the line against a moderate
wind, the sky a diffuse gray-white with no
clouds uniquely but for one mass cloud.
Mass cloud drifting into the gray grass
matted down by winter weather down
to a flat sea, boatless, flukeless.
I pray hurricane. Abalone. Razor
clam coursing with seawater.
On the scrub dune the scrub starts disappearing
leaving that barren more barren. It’s a start.
A Specific Memory of a Pleasant Moment in a Previous Day
You’d see similar illumination going
through a dark field, but not in winter, in summer.
Not in winter—the incalculable joules in snow,
giving an equal undiscriminating clean in the cold.
In this estival dark a bright fester of incurable rotten
joy, a hole, a plot, a pit trap.
Flares like firefly in field.
Flares, the crypts of Epicureans.
A ghost in the night. A Mark Rothko.
Such simple radiation, memory.