The first person singular does not exist in the physical world,
it’s a ghost.
……………………-V. S. Ramachandran, New Scientist
A room with a view
summer holidays digressing
into the heartstrings of a bad faith
chorus. Along the balcony of our latter
days each subatomic thrum is a past
note there’s no coming back from.
Fullness of forest mushrooms
before rot sets in. The reward centre
of minor sins, post-present. A tender
pressure against the caul or thin
gauze of skin infinity filters though
and finds us human. Nothing but rain
for days my Id a sump pump so I’ll not
argue with this weather. I’m already lost
to the hard plumb of a liquid centre
a dead ringer for the first person singular
on my knees and partially dressed
as you’d have it but I’m outside of this
waiting for my arraignment
within expression while the lights
along my street are leaking beams
teething a sodium brace along the base
of my skull. Grave-to-cradle cap over
a brainstem I can’t slap for blooming
a draft I’d never have picked.
My wet cells kindling another
mirror the sense-presence of you
as in childhood false promises flew
like wind through poplars. Each leaf
a paper snap, a little skirt in the updraft.
The stars aren’t keeping track but I know
how to score this. I don’t forgive you
and you don’t need to be forgiven.
My mistrusted I velvet fastened
to whatever happens. Such is the feeling
as the moon rises perpendicular to my view
outside of time and half-bred consequence
you can’t send me back to my room.