Little god, your sun sleeps
beneath the eyelid of the day.
Intent on waking it
the twin dogs
of the past and future
rush in from the heathland,
can’t stop leaping up.
No one can restrain them –
their enthusiasm, their ferocity.
Little god, a wordless word
could raise the eyelid of the day.
*** **** ***
After the nightmare, little god
(three times I was immersed in it –
slept and woke and slept and woke
and slept again) here you are,
but further off and quivering
like the high leaves on a tall tree.
Could you have threaded into it
that silver, hopeful strand:
‘This isn’t really happening’?
The dread of being ill-prepared.
The horror of inspection.
Little god,
like me, in fact, you don’t give up –
beak-like you tear
at the ligaments of the dream
*** **** ***
Little god, in the frostfire of an iris
in the gunshot of a pupil
in an eye behind an eye
a miniature world is spinning.
What news from it?
What makes it turn and turn again
far far away?
An unexpected thing
like memory with its thirst for detail.
From Little God, What News?