On reading Virtualis

On reading Virtualis.

The world is an urn and a flowerpot

whirled through a thousand fractures

presented as fresh each day

a new grief / a best guess

remonstrating with that first flame.

The catchment area of consciousness

manifesting without irony

ever pointing at pressure, heat & dispersal

no mouth, no eyes, and yet there is a record.


Sad to walk

under a pitted and still perfect moon

to speculate of other lives suspended

in that backdrop, radiant with stars.

For they are there, attending whirligig systems

and that distance can be spanned

with all these fragile linkages

the coded tithes of empathy

as my thoughts consent to be used this way.


I will imagine you, poet

perceiving me across this gulf

and lose all place and time

before a sky transformed into an altar.


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Born 1958. Not dead yet.

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