I don't notice the change
of seasons now, hours,
minutes or clocks. What use
have I for clocks? My hands
don't rove in circles, timely
clicks of ordered movement-
they flail erradically like
octopus arms in seizure, or
motionless like light caught
between ceiling and floor,
sometimes gentle, slow, reaching
backwards into shadows.
The memorable moments
are not fragments, pieces
of a ragged kite-tail tied in knots,
but one-long inseparable feeling,
seamlessly glides into every emotion
like a bird balancing on air.
