Whit

A flash of red. Maroon red.

Once again perching,

With saucepan in hand,

I perch on the kitchen table

(touching wood) I smile at the day.

It is 8am.

The red against royal blue, 

Mustard yellow, and fluorine green.

The mood is set;

Frolicsome and hyper!

At 8.30am I shower.

Neurotically the same order,

Brush teeth,

While the baking soda sings

The shower mat.

Aevitas calls;

I am relieved.

No phantom pregnancy this time.

In the night it drains the blood from my head

Hollows out my eyes

As with everything, there is a system.

In the studio, adeptly, I dust glass cubes;

Disturbing nothing.

I am reminded of Griet and her curious gaze.

Vermeer the extraordinaire.

Frolicsome and hyper was my day.

Surreal in retrospect.

Dinner with wise folk

Who deliberate on aliens.

'on the importance of being alien'

A quantum wave smashing through

Collapsing at the  averted gaze,

Combining there after.

What is this?

What an unearthly miracle

Of which we know infinitely nothing about.

We are but a whit on the grand timeline.

Our language is different from them,

These 26 letters will not suffice this time;

They can only initiate what is to be

And fail me when I explain that perhaps I am atheist?

What is this instinctual feeling that speaks and guides at the best of times,

And murmurs consolations otherwise?

What is the speed of light,

When it is slower than the fastest

Smaller than the biggest,

Nothing more than the almost insignificant 

Language that we begin with.

The sapio language that should be no less, no more

Than the abundant dialects of the universe.