And the Meters are Over in the Red

Picture a day – bookish but alive with the wind that flows down from the heights over the smoky mills and rivers, marbled with fog and dew, out to sea and the empty waves of the Irish Sea. Talk to God here, to God and the empty sky that echoes nothing back at you. But there is nothing so I can see again because the wind has blown the dust from my eyes and all that glitter of seas is stretched out undisturbed in front of me, across the world to Boston and beyond. And God would you keep me safe from screaming voices and let me take my leaving of you seriously, to the edge of these moors and derelicts? I am playing at Chess with the bones of the world, with all the meters over in the red, up against their stops, straining against those pulses of tiny particles we know but cannot see. This was supposed to be your future. Where is your honour, your fame for being anything other than dead and sad for most days? At Midnight in this perfect world, everyone would know your name, and not dismiss anything as just noise in their experience, their selfish lives of longed-for greatness. This is darkness, blue and me and something beyond – something over all and nothing. I am, I am, I am a tangle of wires and Wir in space I do not have to live in. A ball a bottle in the secrets left to me and others. A lack of logic betrays me always.