I have a memory of a lighthouse in rain;
the ocean below in cold spray,
the waves among the rocks
and the sky lost in gray.
...
She said she never had any say,
not in the sun,
not under the clouds.
Birth is the beginning,
...
The philosopher lived by the lightness
of his thoughts
and died under the weight
of his theory.
...
My last life, ten slices
of longitudes east, is one part memory
as inarticulate as childhood's innocence
and the rest reconstructed
...
Times when art is a contrivance,
science a numeric construct,
all thinking, effects chasing causes
and dreaming an excess before sleep,
...
We are here for the craft
of sealing every empty corner
with a word or two; even if all had been
learnt from the sun and the moon,
...
My blue share is confined these days
to hospital rooms,
my darkness to the scent of aging hardwood
in funeral homes,
...
More I trusted my passion then
than my meditation now.
The years strive and shape
the chaos into a sober line,
...
What do I remember of my home,
the constancy of seclusion
like the north star
in a crowded sky, a parenthesis
...
It is unbearable to know that
everything I learnt I will forget,
that everything I write down
will slip from my mind, one day.
...