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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