Ten Minute Atmosphere

A title fell off the roof. I did not

approve of its trajectory. Information

needs to be controlled, guarded

against. For and against, pieced

together again. Foxes

ran off with several pieces. Meet

here five years from today. I’ll

discuss what changed, ready

for each disaster in turn. Where

will here be then? I bet you

the shift humanity made. Faith,

not betting. Environment brings

what I need. Mobile, I study

titles, leaking roofs, a triumph

of evolution, if fully present.

It felt impratical the lack of geometry

all over apparent, held in the light

by our ankles. I said, shhhh. If the bears

can be silent at this time of crisis so

can we, unthreatened. But the bears

Boy crossed out the equals sign in the exercise book

removed the sentimentality about his future. Is that

wise? No. I’m not saying it’s not good to be misguided

clear, brave, ambitious in awe at every dusk. Other children

made dens in the thick wood of words. He ate the den,

scorching the tree-line with his inability to sit still. I wish

there was time to follow his progress out of adulthood.

I envy his sense life is not a rehearsal. He wants

more toes, an eager concordance. Purge

and cleansing seem to him appropriate words.

had a drab, wonder-less existence. Only

in the long sleep of hibernation did dreams

give some sense of life, generosity.

One bear, doing the rounds of caves,

lighting fires and in the shadows

their fuller selves gambolled a lightness

belied their bulk. The stutterer

has no problem singing, so has to

sing everything. Fire, rugs, walls

rock-like. Is this a cave am I a bear

where is that fire lighting bear

during the power cut. Shadows

at a certain temperature I begin

to tell stories. Speaking cools no

sorry, I don’t know any stories.

I have not shone the torch at the angle

that will illuminate the paragraphs of my thought

that cover the walls of the room

the walls of the room the walls of a cave

I have no torch I have no rock

and the wall is plasterboard, painted white

and something holds me here akin

to my slight knowledge, one book, mainly looking

at the photographs would a guided tour

offer any sense of what I do, guests

claim to hear birds, falling water, cries

of children, dripping

generalisations. I scoff, fascinated

join the queue for the next tour

on which all the visitors are blind

ask how a room if we want to believe

can come too late to know what inspired

rock and darkness to quit. I

have no idea so get angry, hurl

books at them the stalactite bookmarks

pierce pupils returning sight

The motion of shopping

Fell beyond recognition

A sky climbed into itself

                                    What purpose I will have