When one subtracts from life infancy (which is vegetation), sleep, eating and swilling, buttoning and unbuttoning –
how much remains of downright existence? The summer of a dormouse. Byron, Journal 7 December 1813
Missing the small moment of warmth
and possibility: is it the greatest fault?
What I do to maintain myself: a few
habits of solitude and unbundled filth.
Buttoning and unbuttoning, the clothes
make their own time, expandable and fluid.
What is history but a straw in the wind,
a bird making a nest, a toot on a flute.
Existing for its own sake: how many moments
make up this tiny summer as it folds?
I can eat my own weight over again,
I can become a giant in my own field.
Sleep has a call on life: is it the genuine
purpose, to build a darkness where we float?
“That’s the secret,” says the dormouse,
“Falling into the void is the start of flight.”