Meet me there, in that quiet field

                                                           out beyond

ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing.

Bring your beautiful contempt

                                                     for the orthodox:

when we spar in that cool grass

ideas, language, even the phrase

                                                         each other

make no sense, win no meaning.

Do you think I know who I am when you

                                                                       wrongfoot me?

I know less than a ball knows where it is bouncing,

and as much as this pen knows                                                         

                                                       what it is writing.

You challenge the morning breeze to count to ten

over its fallen secrets, the breeze that lets us breathe

                                                                                                before it’s gone.

You circle against my imagined needs, jab me awake.

Your dancing motion proves that whatever circles

                                                                                        comes from the centre.

Shadow box on!