She had not come, she had not yet
come.
The waiting, the longing, the unmoving
in each of these
stretched-past-breaking-point hours
the hole that can't be filled
in the pit of the stomach
the hunger pushing the boundaries
of the hours, of solitude, a bit
further off
she had not yet come, not yet come
and she dug her absence with a pick axe
laboriously, apparition ploughing in
the dark
silent against a clear backdrop
She had not yet come.
Of course, one doubted she would ever
come
the hours reached cosmic dimensions
almost ridiculous in their order of
magnitude,
density and aloofness
Yet sometimes in the search one would
find
a smoking camp-fire
steaming coffee on the stove
wet trees and grass one mile away
whence no rain had fallen
a tinge of peppermint in the air
a hair hanging off a warm pillow
It was hard to make sense of the hours.
They were not pointing in any clear
direction
they dragged and eluded description
showing and veiling
the hours, the hours
both filling and containing the void
the restlessness, the fidgeting,
the looking-for-reasons
the paralysis and the purpose to get up
to brush up one's teeth and one's
knowledge
the impetus to not put commas
to par one's fingernails
They were the inherent contradiction
the dryness and luxuriance of the world
that which rendered all words empty
and gave them meaning, new meanings
sucking life out of every second
breathing her mind back into them
It was foretold she would burst like a
hurricane
and turn the whole world upside-down
leaving carcasses of animals and cars
and a foot of caking mud
a glistening sense of agony
a jungle-like silence
and sudden gusts of wind
that sent shivers up the spine
and then other hours will come
freed prisoner scratching the days
before the next meeting
off the invisible wall of his cell
other hours will grip and churn
curled up, foetus-like, in pain
seeing things that are, and aren't,
unable to differentiate
these other hours one will not court
will hammer in certain intuitions
among which holding sway over one's
mind
the certitude that one will hurt
will die from this last hurtle-down
love
because there is too little and too
much of it
giving and taking as rampaging
crusaders
ruining to build anew
burning down to fertilise the ground
these hours will make wormfood out of
you
they will sow anger in the lap of your
heart
those same hours that have levelled
mountains down to sand
won't even cock their ear
at the crushing of your skull
the hours etching their distinctive
mark
over every action and thought
even on the foam in the mug of coffee
the hours are like letting go
of that which is still yours
making a memory off a living person
off a moment that would never come to
pass
and the holding-back when she wakes up
at fucking long last
and needs time, more time
and it feels this is all you have
all you have left
the time without her
even after she had come
the waiting
the hours metronoming your heart
making you dream of Maghera cave
and the waves beating the sand
into the wind
and for some reason
you yearn for the sea
for a barefoot shoreline walk
hands folded behind your back like a
peasant
and your nose up in the briny air
you then understand that she was
picking flowers
or was it caterpillars
dancing wildly by the roadside
the reason of being behind
and your constant glancing at the gate
for she was the hours
she was the hours
and saying this I realise
she had always been
here and now and there and then
all along
I will have to wait for hours
for her to deign glance back at me
to catch a glimpse of her like a
shooting star
cowering in a corner when she flares
like the sun
elbows on the gate to the prairie when
she's the night
when she rains, looking ahead,
smiling when she appears in the doorway
when she leaves, smiling.
