Meridian

Turning to weightless implements of gear-click hedging in instamatic blue, our ticking gaze in light like waves, overturning A lifeline, a forerunning wake of life rafts and instruments, luminal seconds in cesium skimmed threshold or eleventh hour draped across the doorjamb. We lack fear of flatness or our impalement on axes, blinking a reticle of stasis: turn it over and begin again, this dripping like TV test patterns. Let’s stay, I say, and buoy ourselves in river locks intercalated in channels or our fender-bent synapses, recycling this floating. Never believing in water torture or autisms as misfortune, we were counting gold in a pointillistic landscape of radiating boulevards. In Budapest, a necropolis of shifting foci grid-dots. Soviet heroes, missing limbs. The thought does not sadden us, but the calculation of sundials: whether flat or equatorial they always deliver this sublimating ice (we are tapping on the ceiling)