Everyone has gone to bed, just me and a poem, although for a moment I may have disappeared as something else stirred and started to wake up from its long sleep.

I resisted the urge to ask a very stupid question that sprang to mind as I struggled with the pattern. What is the worm?

Instead the thought I go to bed with that may be forgotten or be transformed on waking is more simple.

Plotting its trajectory in sound and into other minds. That comes simply by just observing the structure of the verse and the familiarity of having to work with verse.

First line the rose is real and in the space, palpably present and tangible (if you hit it correctly and pull it off).

Second line, it’s moved it’s now in the breath, transformed into sound, its moving from an intimate physical being to a wider space and part of other minds.

Its transforming, moving, distance being drawn so it can occupy a very different space.

Being in and part of language.

It’s still alive and intimate but utterly transformed, it should by now be a part of everyone in the space.


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