How can we talk of meaning

When we’re tired and dumb,

our wings weakening in flight

beyond horizons

to empty spaces where

Existence bites back?

Observing trains in and out

as doors snap shut

and travellers are missing

or never saw the station

and we are alone

with suitcase filled with stuff

we will never need or wear.


Yes, it is great to fly

and sample stillness.

The bliss, it is a kiss of life,

and emptier still

there is a holiness here,


as we stand talking riddles

to parts of ourselves long drugged

by longing not to belong

-just alive enough to feel

that something is very wrong.


Does it matter, this matter?

The asking stumbles on the curb.


Can we do more to help

this splendid disaster called Life?


“Just be here,” the night replied.

“Be here and let it in.

That is enough for ever.

You can sleep now.”


But I am here, I whispered,

my voice like a thin draft

from a passing car


I am here.


A snowflake dissolving

unwitnessed on asphalt

and a mind gone silently white.