I meditate separately. I read enclosed.
together we try to watch a panoramic video of a lunar eclipse. there’s a second where we both hold still phone aligned with the moon
on an empty side street you sit in your car & inter questions about the lost causes of poetry, as the windows are touched by bay mist
sat in study, I have a nightmarereflection a moment of fragmentary-separation-perspective looking at myself out of many eyes it is overwritten as impossible by the individual subject as tiny dots of water touch my hand from the open attic window
somewhere outside cats meet in groups, sheltering below the rusty chassis’ of parked cars; alert, resting, content.
I project myself inside the plant stems growing in our garden and feel some sense of pulsation; of sunrise & night through a virescent cathedral cortex.
She passes through the house ready for sleep I listen to a small city You are forgotten I remind myself briefly of telepathy communication through inter-presence always singular adjusting attuning a cultivar in a terracotta pot lost loss is time reminded reconciled to many voices without singular passed
Beau W. Beakhouse is a poet and artist based in Cardiff. His poetry and art practice often return to spirituality, spatiality, community & the post-colonial. @beauwbeakhouse
Image banner: Michael Le Roi via Flickr Creative Commons
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