New untitled poem

 

… on a way, stretching across the light 

reflecting from a low sun and off a rarely opened window,

only sometimes up but always further, 

there’s always more. 

There’s always more. 

There are spectra beyond us, 

access is always limited, and auditory ranges playing at our far edges

and we don’t ever know what may be done, except there’s never any 

                        true end, 

even death comes amidst, even …

… a polished surface under a fingertip, a fresh blue, coolly penetrated by thirsting vision; 

there are numberless shifts, always, always more and we connect, disconnect, stretching … 

… like Clov, never going out, always starting again or going on, 

        inside the light and 

noise we are bleeding infinitely into that is extending us infinitely,

that delimits and surpasses infinitely, 

                          space and colour and time,

these bricks and the colour of these bricks are already beyond me …