Angular appropriately lands at the turning point in my concertina book. InkToberish synchronicity. Half way through the month. Half way through the book. All good. Although the poem might be about freezing in the face of fear, it’s also about the pause you can give yourself in that moment to make choices. So as I step over the page and metaphorically go down the other side of the month / book I am aware that I’m enjoying these inky pauses now, not fighting them anymore.
I notice the angular
tilt of my whole body
balanced for the step
it will not take
and my arms are bachelor
passengers in a temporary
suspension of service.
While I dangle there, atom
dinks atom as usual
like tiny atmospheric chancellors
organising the value of air.
The silence janitor
has turned the dial
of noise to zero point four.
The wild shouting
that froze me in this granular
fix is angrier but I cannot
pay attention. The atoms
push back the sound
waves in my favour.
another kind of happiness 