It has been more than a year now
of adventures in solitude.
Fifteen months? And on? And what months to go?
And go?
Let us be resigned, however.
Ours is only a bit part
in the long politics of disease.
Still, in my security
I don’t have to step out of the house,
don’t even have to look out the window,
when sometimes it seems I have walked off
the edge of Earth.
But when I turn round to check
the geography of dark space
I am cheered by the sight of Earth
in the trail of stardust
behind me.
I’d have to look out the window
to see the path in front of me.
Instead,
I re-dream an old LP on the turntable—
Bach’s Violin Partitas and Sonatas—
the geography of an enlightened
cosmos I have almost escaped into:
a moon-calm trail,
sane to every sense with which
we learn to probe the quantum wholeness
of unsanity.
