Peter Hammill Undone
I mark the high days and the holidaysred-letter on the page; fast-forward into memory,prepare to be upstaged. The envelopes I push againstso rapidly becomea wrap to keep me safe and warmbut soon enough I'll be undone. And if, for instance, I had spent a lifetimein the service of cleanliness and godlinessI'd still be washed up now. My history doesn't make much sense,no corner has been turned.The future's brooding and immenseand everything I've learned seems tiny in the scheme of things,the reckoning's begun -I hold together what I can,the stitches bound to come undone.And, for example, if I'd spent a lifetimein pursuit of miraculously common senseI'd still feel stupid now.I'm waiting on a final clue,a final validationof what I did,of what I hid,of all I called my own.Our high days and our holidaysare numbered, every one.So quick the hours rush awayand everything we've left's undone.
