Under The Wings

Morning Song

From the apeiron of boundless Chaos
inhaled Chronos peiron of succession,
gravity of time's arrow,
consciousness of death -

In the hour of the wolf,
plinked strings next room
(high-fretted, damped, tentative)
guitar on a bunk bed -

Bright Eros, driving himself to skirt the edges
of possibilities, daring tides of neutron stars,
unbearable lucidities,
juddering ecstasies,

to wake and grieve the emptiness of cloud-light -

But now sun has come to fascinate windows;
High Summer is still here; and clouds, like fingers
raked through solute blue,
dissolve as Helios climbs -

Alone and don't know what it means
to be untormented by presences,
memories -

meditating from this void,
to let myth happen as it will brush past
in corridors narrowing towards September.