My fingers are signs of awareness,

rising before me, showing off

like the missiles

of the silos in the horizoning Nebraska mono cultures;

signposts

in a curious version of the Present,

hung with shreds of a Past

propped with sharp ignitions of the Future

I curl up in a travelling position,

swung around, off with the Earth,

holding on to the bed,

while my AI Spotify DJ starts up

Playing For Keeps for me

from my Elvis Presley early youth

down in the living room,

me recalling the smell & sight

of those black RCA EP records

with those gray, star-shaped center pieces

all stacked up on the record player,

automatically dropped down onto the turntable,

one after the other,

in the order you'd placed them;

the heavy, yellowish tone-arm

with its cartridge & stylus moving in,

descending down in an erratic robotic motion,

finding its position in the groove

with a loud noise just before the music began,

performing the operation in reverse

when the side had been played through,

moving out of the way

to let the next vinyl drop from on high,

transforming the little boy of 8

into a countryside rock star from Memphis, Tennessee,

imitating the lyrics without any prior knowledge of English

Meanwhile, the coffee sharpens my senses,

dropping me off for a while

in Joan Baez's Diamond & Rust Dylan lament,

him out in a booth in the Mid West,

with eyes “bluer than robins' eggs”,

“already a legend, the unwashed phenomenon,

the original vagabond”

Perhaps my Spotify AI DJ is my best friend?

The 15th of April

is a sun-drenched flow of time;

the Present a snow-garnished sine wave

without duration, but fresh with air

while Nibelungen Ring in the distance

gives me the feel of Folke Rabe's “What”

and other stretching drones

from the middle & late 20th century minimalism,

seriously surprising me,

having me run down the stairs to find out,

my bare feet flying like Hermes' winged tootsies

Horse feeding is drawing near,

the roads wind through the vicinity,

trodden or left untouched,

empty-gravelled in the morning light,

silence roaring

without those internal combustion engines

making faces,

stillness rushing, matter closing in on perception,

bodies showing up for a split life

I have to ask Anna

how she thinks of the land she owns;

the woods, the houses, the meadows,

all the walls of all the buildings,

the insides & outsides of them,

the gravel of the driveway,

the soil of the fields, the birds that come and eat,

the roofs that rise up like ships

on the horizon,

the nearness and the farness

when she leaves & returns,

the body attached

to the name her parents gave her

in another age,

still crowning her presence

and all her dealings,

me calling out through the rooms: “Anna!”

When I've seen to the horses

I stay for a while

leaning up against the stable door in the sun,

watching Moses, Russin & Torre in the meadow,

chewing away; their grinding noises

cosy and calming,

my eyes closed, the warmth reddish

through my lids,

benign thoughts circling low around me;

I let them