Jon Stone – ‘Nothing, that is, but the mind of man’

Many times the dark is interrupted.
First by the thin, fiery Ω where the lightbulb was,
then the limey stain it leaves in the eyes.

Then the lazy sway of a lightbar.

And so on.

The air in the room hangs in a pose of scrupulous concentration.

In the earth beneath the bed committees groan, ministers worry at granite and water is brought across croaking bridges. Every bed is a burn hall, securely ablaze.