Deep Sea Diver
There’s a field inside my head. It’s dark and flat and a moon hangs above it in whose silvery negative light nothing appears to live. It’s very mysterious and simple, on a different planet to the one outside my window that moves and is manifold: each one of the tens of millions of blades of grass shivers in its singularity; one sheep’s crusty underwool is home to a greenbottle settling down to lay her two hundred and fifty possibilities while another stares out of the glazed globe of an eye not unlike a man who’s lost his mind but found there cause instead to be vaguely, dully, afraid of everything. And beneath the sheep and field and flattened buttercups miles and miles beneath, all is shift and shale, burn and boil: old underearth unseeable, unexplorable; who scrambles through your soft weak rock, who swims through your molten ocean, what holds court at the centre of your solid iron ball the size of the moon? Once I plumbed down level by level into the sea, into the realm of the falling-debris, dead and dying-fish-eating creatures into the pitch black frigid waters and blind long-tentacled things; down among the deepwater canyons I went and still nowhere near was I to the outer core of the earth’s interior, its massive indoors when I saw hanging there a sole, or flounder a self never before seen – never before a self but one who remained unchanged in the bright beam of my look (though something may have gone through it like the mildest electric shock) and I rose to the surface like one who had only that to do where slowly over the years all that I held dear came loose and I took to wandering the fields that covered the earth like so many soft individual dressings and I lay down on one and looked up at the sky where I saw a fish hangingin the black, where I saw a moon.