Visitations of the past in dreams
and visits to the past in daydreams –
most mornings idly bear witness
to these and other shelved imaginings.

Lying down,
this vast land from an eleventh storey window,
low clouds encircling a nearby mountain,
or grey birds taking flight,
fill no absence.
Only the shell of the ceiling remains
to greet four walls.

Unbound on that ceiling,
that which is imagined
asks so suddenly to be:
shoulders, arms, and torsos,
which warm shadows of touch
might fasten
to other living fragments.

Hours pass by with their audible seconds
and the many,
measured rhythms of the body,
breathe and pulse with liquid repetition.
But a body never armoured against its longing,
wasp stings,
or any earthly prickling
must learn to also forsake such dispatches.

Retrieved and invited
they would light up –
like paper lanterns above a timid flame –
hollowly flutter and then ascend,
like the great night receiving them
and the solemn dawn they will not see.

One cannot humour them
and paint life into inanimate companions,
moved by nothing
but the will of fire
and the mind unknown to itself.