I cannot place
one foot before the other
without counting
the intricate pattern
of rhythm
beaten out on
the pavement.
I cannot hear
words spoken without
syllabic accuracy.
Is this the birth
of language or the death
of desire as
felt by humans?
I cannot fall
into the free flow of colour.
I hear about where
souls are absolved
and the numeration
dissolves in
spreading glory.
Bound to the stake
I calibrate the hours,
time’s doomed messenger,
victim of ridiculous
tunes, hums, repetitions
predicting nothing;
hoping for a self.
