Each Tiny Spat

Enchantment, now,
pre-dawn, as single spatters hit the metal casing
of the air-conditioner – gentle clatter, off and on,

raindrops in the dark –
entirely and quietly regaling
with a strange sweet intimacy:

softly changing tenses from the present, past and future
into something so dimensionally more embracing
that the mystery of its extended moment,

lacing vertically and horizontally
into new continents
of time and space, lets you derive

the soft exhilaration of an accurate perception of this place:
gently passed to you
as if it were a lover’s note.

Lines both long and short in it devote themselves
both lightly and assiduously to a mission
of composure, perfectly at ease with nakedness:

irredeemable exposure.
Each tiny spat
is that.

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