Disconnected, an instability pervades it all:
facts fell, even before; but now they disappear.
The close-cropped ground itself has changed,
shape-shifting us to drift in stranger days –
although we nod hello, or pass a word or two
… while walking, as we reprise remaindered memories
in closed and finite loops of rhythmic rumination,
trying (too hard) to make sense out of change,
we furrow in eccentric isolations; untouched,
to bake our bread with shriveled yeast, lacking any flour…
… while we lurch from clutching-straw to breaking-straw
in days chained end-to-end, unmarked by rituals or events,
from which the guiding rope, the warp and weft have gone,
replaced by estimated metres’ distance; leaving
a semblance of society, with awareness shaken loose…
