Curled on a grassy circle of sunlight,
looking up at the clouds, I am
seven years old again. My parents are
healthy, happy and will always be alive.
Sun-powered, I can do anything on Earth.
A dark cloud blocks the window’s sunbeam.
I return to the cold, wood floor.
My old eyes -sun-blinded – burn and tear.
When I stand up, my body protests
and aches from more than just years.
The leader says this pose looks easy,
but relaxing is very difficult for many.
Savasana, lying like a corpse, but conscious.
No more struggling, awareness, tension subsiding slowly –
my mind wandering onto a dark path.
There are 1440 minutes in a day.
The nurse tells me my heart beats
80 times per minute – 115,200 a day.
So many moments, exacting products of distance
multiplied by the charge of absent love.
* Though a “moment” is an inexact measure of time, in physics, it is something that can be calculated using a formula.
The plan was never to do this.
But somewhere in this life’s Middle Ages,
plans faded and were difficult to follow.
Comfortable in what we had made,
frightened to turn a new blank page.
A new year is drawn but shows
days recently erased still beneath. It’s repentance.
It has a long life. It bleeds
through the new work, day, life
and haunts the wet, freshly painted present.
Picasso’s 1901 Blue Period painting The Blue Room under infrared imaging revealed another portrait underneath the room scene. This pentimento is a bearded man in formal wear wearing a number of rings on his fingers. Did Pablo run out of money for a new canvas, or did he regret what he had painted?