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"Echoes in the Graduated Cylinder”

In the glass throat of morning,

a single drop measures memory—

not by volume, but by ache.

Calibrated silence,

etched in milliliters of longing,

where each mark recalls

a moment we didn’t name.

The meniscus curves like a question,

hovering between surface tension

and surrender.

And still, the drop waits—

not to fall,

but to be seen.

.

the world enters unannounced.
the body gives its final measure.
the rhythm that keeps time
             for every word.

at first glance: 

a lantern catching the outline of a face. 

on the last vigil:

 the same lantern guttering at the threshold. 

it's always:

the act of seeing, which 

keeps the world from vanishing.

.

a lantern catching 

the outline of a face. 

the same lantern 

guttering at the threshold. 

the act of seeing, which 

keeps the world from vanishing.

.

.

The fountain folds into itself,
water chasing water
like a thought that refuses
to finish.

In the courtyard,
two friends rehearse a photograph
they will not take.
Their laughter rises,
breaks against the walls,
returns in fragments—
a tide that forgets
where it began.

The paving stones keep
the weight of every step,
but never speak.
Shadows slip across them
like hulls without rigging,
adrift in a harbour
that never opens to sea.

Beyond the walls,
the wind has lost
its compass.
It leans into the gate,
pressing the same syllable
against iron,
again,
again.

And I,
at the margin,
count the widening circles
until the numbers blur,
until the act of counting
becomes the circle itself.

.

The sundial leans into the wrong hour,
its shadow spilling
like ink across the stones.
It marks not time,
but the absence of it.

Shadows wander about
or stand their ground,
as if unsure
whether to stray or stay.

They carry the weight
of conversations
that never began.

Would you surrender forever
for a moment alone?

The question drifts
through the courtyard air,
unanswered,
flinging itself into the wind.

A woman at the far bench
traces the rim of her coffee cup
as though it were a coastline.

Her eyes follow
an invisible map —
one that leads
only back to here.

Somewhere,
a child’s kite
hangs motionless in the sky,
its string slack,
its colours fading
into the same
grey hour.

A Doldrum Sea

The fountain folds into itself,
water chasing water
like a thought that refuses
to finish.

In the courtyard,
two friends rehearse a photograph
they will not take today.
Their laughter
is a low tide —
it comes,
it goes,
it comes again.

The paving stones remember
every step,
but never tell the story.
Shadows drift across them
like ships without sails,
anchored in the same
grey hour.

Somewhere beyond the walls,
the wind has forgotten
how to change direction.
It leans against the gate,
breathing the same breath
over and over.

And I,
standing at the edge,
count the circles
until I lose
the will to count.

.

The Yawn Between Hours

The plaza holds its breath.

A wind gathers,

but only enough to lift

the corners of yesterday’s paper.

I walk the edge —

stone to shadow,

shadow to stone —

smiling the smile

I made a couple of hours ago,

still warm in its pocket.

Visitors pose for a photograph

they will put off

for another hour,

or another day.

The fountain repeats itself,

water folding into water,

circles without departure.

Somewhere,

a sundial leans into the wrong hour,

its bronze hand

always too late.

The yawn arrives without warning,

a soft collapse of the face,

a brief surrender to the weight

of the afternoon.

And yet,

in the far corner,

a child’s shout

breaks the air —

a spark that rises,

then falls back

into the slow turning

of the plaza’s breath.

.

I stand on a shore so small

the maps forget to name it,

watching the tide pull away

like a curtain from the stage of the stars.

Out there, the galaxies turn without

noticing us —

a slow dance in a hall we will never cross.

And yet, here,

on this blue backwater of a world,

we carry the strange right to ask

what the dance is for.

We sift the sand for patterns,

read the wind for syllables,

as if the hidden were a letter

addressed to whoever dares to open it.

.

Perhaps the center of the cosmos

is not a place,

but the moment a question

finds its voice.

.

"further down the bookshelf aisle" 

Further down, the air tilts —
cedar and something sharper,
like paper just torn.

The books lean as if listening,
their shadows knotting

in the seams between boards.

A single bulb flickers,
its light breaking into shards
that glance off a cover
furred with years of quiet.

I keep walking,
and the silence keeps pace,
as if it has business here too.

.