Neurons short-circuit somewhere
On the road from stimulus to response –
A moment suspended, a rush
Of pollen wind, a snatch
Of last year’s expression
Caught in this year’s mute dance;

And then: that power-surging arrival,
The recognition of things oppressive
To the heat-weary brain
And the sparks that fly upwards
For having nowhere else to go.
Silence is what follows

For silence is sometimes
Not unlike prayer –
A quiet longing for things unlike this
And moments that make sense
When we only have moments
That injured us last year and now.

So the silence bends its knees;
This is all our brains have left.
But tomorrow we reassemble
And brains debate old routes
While we guide fragile neurons
Through ditches and jungles, onto
The pathway of the next year.