I

I When it came to life in the morning when it fell in the autumn to life where the tides, a tiny glint, it crept into life in feeling this; the autumn mornings, very early its itching skin the beginning of each day swallowed and doubled itself. Began each morning as the very tiny or giant tide moving each day; soft and drowning skin which is not revenged yet continues to be clipped and in the revert tongue of a quiet early morning starts to speak: “One loose ear. Cut, cut from my head for betrayal in the cold daylight. How will this hole in my head heal? And how was I tried? Stay. Please stay. Bring over some orange light. I am lost an ear. It is taken by law. Taken in law. Law has done for my head a little hole. Hello? Any sound? Are you there? Take this my sound. For it goes. For now may I fall. Solid as day. There is dancing. I’m sitting here waiting for the air to clear or for my wounded earhole to close. I heard a flood would come, and I informed. I said ‘I can hear that there is a flood coming’. They took me into a little room - white with blocks of green. And then one produced a tiny pair of scissors whilst four held me down. They slowly cut through the gristle and removed my ear. They asked me to thank them. I affected a bloodened curtsey, as best one can when held to a plate. It would not be my end they cheerily sang as they promised me to my napalm. I can tell by your eyes. Now I must leave you. For a long year a minute or forever. What is it you want, for beauty brings their mane beneath this healthy roof that we have come to stare. Stands our noble fight. But we will not be going to war. That would only be stupid of us. Like the children who go to war we could go into some kind of a war together. Our rules for the war will be these. There are many of us. Let there be only two. Let us both drink our water and cut out this arcane tongue. We shall heat up our blades, go back to our berths, the little houses. How they sing. I like singing to you my tired little war she colours. So what is the problem that we make our dual war for. Fury. It ends and it ends. But rest it is morning. It lights hard. Your heavy heavy slips back to sleep. It is why I have had to keep a constant log of the tides. Their movements and ours. Tell me that these are not our motions my moon and war and worth oh. Hide away in light.