In a pendant past, still waiting to become, my dreams were ever wandering in a lifeless land: the high night of suburbia, where the homes were anthracite compressed from smoke, and the streets all ran with bitumen, flowing over aeons to Nocturnia.
When the morning’s rays are slanting through the kitchen windows, it’s time for mathematics.
Once upon a cereal box, I read of the analytical and inestimable Doctor Petal, who was confounded by the nature of free will, and chose to coalesce the time stream to make the future as irrevocable as the past.
When the rain fell sizzling down, damp with lightning, she observed the protozoa in each drop, waiting to reach the underworld to complete the polygon of life.
It’s as if I’m alive, I’m almost sure.
Strangers know me at the supermarket,
people knock and peer through windows,
ask me why I wasn’t where I should have been
by rote and custom.
Yet I know when I awaken every day,
I’m here for the very first time.
I’ve breathed the air chirped by sparrows,
critically appraised everything
I didn’t understand,
searched for magica potenta
in urban mysteries, shaded quantum clouds,
on bedroom ceilings, and found echidna quills,
kookaburra beaks, sobriety, all the words
I didn’t want to write.
Three knocks at the door-to-door,
I said I don’t want any, thank you,
not knowing what I didn’t desire.