Waiting.
Movement is memory;
my thoughts, a sluggish Congo,
out of a heart of darkness.
Still waiting,
now at the core of the galaxy,
where space/time changes meaning
and not even thought escapes the event horizon.
Not even thought.
Still waiting.
So still that the torturer's horse
uses me for a scratching post.
I am still and I am waiting.
A small bird moves on the edge of vision;
tiny, exquisite, busy with doing.
I am still.
Watching and waiting.
Enduring the horse,
exploring the river,
ignoring the grasp of gravity,
and far beyond the comprehension of
yellow winged honeyeaters.
Dennis Greene
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Dennis Greene 47/10
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http://members.networx.net.au/~dennisg/
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