The silence of the morning

Starlight Night, Lake George - Georgia O’Keeffe, 1922.

The silence of the morning waits gently for everyone to wake up.

What wonders happened in the world last night?

The cosmic journey of the stars, late news in the lonely sky

despite its many moons.

Fish dreamt their liquid dreams of algae and stones.

Books rested on their stands, mute.

Then there’s the universe of human dreams.

An absurd, brief, forgotten,

portable universe,

shared with so many but

we are always alone.

Nine billion universes where

the veil of death is pierced

just like bread is eaten.

A single gesture, a word, an object, a kind of light

becomes the angular stone

of fate,

the beginning of the unknown,

the ending of something we thought unmovable.

It’s now or

enough.

Universes indifferent to time, and yet

they dictate the rhythm of those who wake up.

Universes of vague echoes, places nowhere,

cryptic messages, the language of prophets

and poets and madness.

Universes that do not always keep the doors open

­­–it is necessary to pay close attention,

materialise its works into ink early the next morning,

and its visions into a twenty-year long pilgrimage.

We can speak with the gods,

exterminate them,

resuscitate them,

become them.

Demons, angels, birds.

Destroying, creating and singing

all in equal measure.