9 May 2007


When my attention does a somersault
some way above the fontaneal

I'm flung into the wide, concave mirror

into the white light that shimmers with

a kaleidoscope of suggested colours, with

sandalwood, rose and water

freezing cold yet, below the numbness,

warming like an undeniable fact

my skin tingles as if strengthening

I hear a beat: a drum or perhaps a huge lions paw

and am drawn down

ready to face it all

ready to translate it all

ready to become the indefinable,

all the more.