there are two kinds of time in this poem, so probably in my life. I have been thinking one is projected time and the other is violent time? or horizontal and vertical one is the time in which I walk forward through the past, that is, I think of the cup of tea I will drink when I get to work, and here I lay seeds, a path, a path lined with bamboo - when I was 19 or 20, an undergrad, coming home on the 4.16 am from Central, gurning, cold, jaw rigid and guts clenching, heart erratic and racing but head heavy, lids cracked, train window glossy metal-orange & grease smeared, smell of ozone the national park wheeling past, land spinning fast at its edge that rubs against the train - and the trees at its horizon almost still, the centre of the wheel. I would be laying the circular path from the bed where I'd be soon, warm & able to sleep, & from there back to myself on the train, cold arms and a walk home still to come.

and the other time - is molten land? vicious movement in the guts? waking rage at the light switch, knowing something bad is coming? is red vision?

is the execution of debt? Is the electricity in the stripped wires? is needing the letters, writing the letters, receiving the letters, daily, quickly, copiously, pages on pages?

I don't know. time to sleep.