inklings: creating and destroying space

Saturday - Inklings

“Space isn’t remote at all. It’s only an hour’s drive away if your car could go straight upwards.” – Sir Fred Hoyle, “London Observer,” 1979

backspacing through the daylight
in a quiet alcove
the compass pin spins round
in the closet where the hoarder occupies his time
the dust mites gather for their annual meeting
in the voids
of the deserted corridor
you press your nose against the speckled window and gaze
in at the blank floor
like a palimpsest washed and written again and again
there hovers a note that does not exist
there hovers a smell that has evaporated
there hovers the image of chaos and calm tussled in the laundry basket and washed over again
freshly pressed then packed and gone
in the pit of your stomach are the raging harpies
whose desperate cravings seek a base emotion of mankind
to fill the emptiness with possession
to drown the silence with noise
so you turn
and walk

away

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