From bed-warm flesh to rainy daylight seeping through pink curtains
you wake to stare another death in the face, stumble bluntly into
furniture, start the stunned debate with the face gaping back from the
pitiless mirror, dictating the hundred and one questions. Magpie eyes
alight outside for the first crumb of morning. Thin-as-filament insects
scuttling later from the paintbrush; terror of the black-back spider
disturbed from its dungy slumber by footsteps on its inch of gravel: all
the passing kinetic quick of the world at the edge of touch as a single
breath is taken, let go: death of hundreds, hundreds more wriggling
into life. In the big world the workaday commuters shuffle on to
world’s end through the mortared bricks of a mortal city: deaf and
dumb, they fumble along any blind road, hands held up for a minute’s
silence in which as on a grim, inky stream the dead flow back with
remorseless tidings, ravenous in their unabashed to and fro, their local
wanlight hither and thithering—shameful and vibrant as any unvoiced
flesh-memory holding its own against the odds and never harvested.