The Sea and The Sky

Public affection has assigned us, we are admitted
To barren corners and late dives, a hastened immediacy,
Needing no more invitation than a doorway’s personal demand,
Suddenly imposed, any indication of meaning.

An association is built on contact,
A method of safety, a point of reference,
If only to be certain that, in this small nowhere,
We are not quite alone, and an address opens with borrowed keys,

Careless to the inflection of the various and the ordinary,
A retreat amid the minute’s rapid shell, its spent
Singular character; between our thought and action,
An impulse vanishes, testing the door’s escaping light.

We are laying out the world, again;
The lines which fade into the creased edges,
Their names retreating, giving up the weight
Of each footprint, collect at a fixed marker,
The mass called history compressed to a tight incision.

Divisible like a weakened thread, each
Has a beginning and moves beyond its limits,
A steadied hand spreading its width
Outwards, testing how far it might reach,
A game played with the eyes closed,

Which finds a town submerged under a finger, placed
At random, until names and occurrences acknowledge
Their common relation, and trigger a significance;
Often as minor as a sensation, a brief look of vacancy.
Finally, for us, it is the gravitation backward,

The retracing of absent footsteps as if a familiar hand
Forced us to turn unexpectedly, called us to an attention
Where the soil is dark with carbon, and any map cannot
Transfigure the wounds which worked it to the surface,
The changed light each channel would now open into.

The detection of vital statistics,
Their repetition projecting the heart’s
Movement, cycle in a persistent register,
Serving as no clear biography,
Though undisrupted, a response caught

In a radar arc, where we are briefed by its report,
And replaced into security; waking her from an isolation,
We are assured that here,  the given and received are not
Properties for measurement, that the touch and trade
Of hands escapes the proven pulse.

Working with my dad involves me making tea and reading Julio Cortazar while he puts a kitchen together. I’m probably not the son he really wanted.

Appointed to the task by natural conviction,
Its limbs steady the fibres into a coherence,
Lines measured and locked, one to the other,
A test of strength, its readiness to build a centre.

Attuned to the couplings and connecters required,
The intersections are set, finding the framework suspended,
A vacant space bridged where the light is caught,
And blinks with a repeated pattern.

Acceptingly vulnerable, the silk tracks stagger in place,
An undiminished diligence pushing on into completion,
Until one web offers up the workings of another, 
How, spiralling outwards, we assemble about us what we know,

Or what is retrieved from the distortion; though stored tightly in their own
Intricate holdings, at crisis point we turn into the sections disturbed,
A frame by frame account losing its linear state, out here,
We are no longer certain how what we have made has been made.

Passed the first year of uni with 2.1s and firsts!