Even the moon seems trapped, the shadows
wrap themselves round everything
like army blankets. When the new day dawns
they fall, untidily, upon the floor, or crumple
where they lie, as they have done today.
Today, indeed, morning has dawned in say-so only,
and there are figures in the shadows, furry, fuzzy
figures perambulating aimlessly. They haven't slept,
they have been exercising through the night -
their form of meditation, I suppose - emitting
sounds, low moans or whimpers as they walk.
I wonder what obsessions their minds entertain,
imagine that they play non-verbally
with pictures and with sounds and that
the images relate somehow to these surrounds:
dull, claustrophobic, bleak and out of focus.
And then to each in turn, at moments critical
in ways outsiders cannot guess, there comes
an inner glow, brief herald to a blaze of light,
a blinding flash. He falls as dead.
Only the tourist, the uninitiated notices.
I wonder which man wins the mystic game:
the last man standing or the first to fall.
Inspired by the current image on the Lisa Ricard Caro Blog Writing in the Buff.