There are well-lit places

in older, i.e. earlier versions

of time & space,

that the living, except for the undersigned,

have forgotten, never observed, or suppressed

I collect what I can never forgive myself;

keep it in good condition,

and polish it until it shines

- but in step/out of step

with the years' splashing & pulsing

through being,

I have begun to accept

many dubious conceivabilities

in this angular persona;

the everyday mask clinging blotter-tight

to name, reputation and daily speech,

as far as the cardiovasculature hisses & seeps

Today, Wild Mistress Anna does not rise

in the Western bedroom

as she usually does, ungodly early,

like a dawn spirit from the Great Ship of Dreams,

to tackle what must be imbued:

the henhouse construction out in the garage,

or today's sourdough baking,

or the endless horse-care chores,

but I see she was up earlier

and let out the horses,

who, due to the wet and inhospitable weather,

slept in their stalls last night

I tiptoe barefoot across the hall from the Eastern bedroom,

peer through the cats' gap at the Western bedroom door

and see her lying on her side,

face turned toward the far wall,

where and old portrait of me atop the mountain Nallo hangs

I stand motionless, holding my breath;

observe her horizontal contour in the twilight

Yes, she is breathing,

and life carries on under its own conditions

I watch it limp away down the Gunnarsdjup Road,

a little hesitantly