Early in the morning, after
the short summer night spent awake,
I read Ray Bradbury and Margaret Atwood,
her character's reminiscences
wandering World War Two Canada
bringing up childhood memories
of summer trips to Lapland,
his evoking memories of reading his books
on days when rising from my bed,
setting aside The Illustrated Man
or The October Country
I wouldn't have wandered
through empty rooms but into conversations,
into life, directed
into action, wanted or unwanted,
while now I linger like
the spirit of the long dead in the tombs
whose doors Belzoni, the man-bull,
breaks down in the third book I'm reading,
dust motes and images and the echoing past
carved into wall and memory
flicker in the light of his lamps,
in the rays of the risen Sun.
12.07.2025
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