I imagine Sisyphus less happy

If I could occupy myself in the same way

as the November leaf will fall

from dry weather steady branches

to damper days on the ground

and gain the certainty of such a short two-stage difference

made in the purpose of seasons

through the migration of waters

by the resolution of the winds;

not facing the disappearance of myself in prolonged detachment

nor over-reaching my needs against a flattened surface

but suggesting the appearance of time in a repeat movement instead

trying to settle the panicking of my roots

and the loosening this causes:

which opens the ground, bears me to my collapse;

so finding, somehow, a single distance between standing and falling over,

 

Then, perhaps, next November, there would no longer be a leaf to fall.

Even the even-ing of things suffers from the unevenness in which they first happened

On the fully turned out darkness of an even-ing therefore almost over

The ink with which someone pre-western setting began recalling the day’s form

Has to be exchanged for one that sits contrast brighter to the lunar suppression of most shaping

And where first reflections had been written in lights previous to the occidental collapse

The difference of a total shade now hides in the same no longer opposite in colour;

But once the oriental resetting of skies by morning comes, those letters will be revealed again

To which those of whiter impression nocturnally concerted will bright-on-brighter blank out

As day 2 is begun in full mourning of the One vision lost again through the solar transitions;

As someone restarts under this next sun, perennially indebted by the ongoing incompleteness of a First day.

 From the precipice where the walkable level ends and the horizon collapses into a watercolour of lands falling over one another below, and you survey everything with the condensed perspective of a cloud, watching – with a detachment that makes everything look both relative and adorable – the ecstasies, anxieties and challenges of the natives down there, and once you have smiled to yourself, maybe even extending to a shake of the head in disbelief at how unnecessary their actions and reactions seem from up here, there is no other direction to take but to river back to the hospitable origin whence you came, where you will tell your family and friends, and every local willing to listen, of this remarkable discovery, and who knows how happy the possibility of visiting this vertically deposed world will make some, and how fearful the possibility a visit from it could make others, and what legal attention may have to be given to either scenario… And amid all the consideration it starts to rain, and you wonder where that cloud could have come from, and you smile to yourself again, this time less assured of what you are (not) seeing.