What I Do Between the Words

The stock of the rifle is hand-selected walnut. I polish it with a soft cloth and occasionally use linseed oil. I dust a porcelain lady twice a week. She does not need my attention, but I give it. My Nikon needs to be taken out of its case, otherwise it may turn into a blind coal-black memory. I pick up a quartz crystal and sigh, At least once a fortnight. The sigh does not mean anything unless you think ‘sighs’ mean anything. When the black dog returns, I drive out at night with no aim or destination. The 'dog' must be driven somewhere, and left on the edge of a highway. I go to the Oriental grocery emporium each month to therapy-browse. Sometimes I buy a paste or a sauce not having a clue how to use them. Cooking into the unknown is my space travel. These things I do are tramlines, a navigability that gets me back to a place where I can write a poem with no black dogs attached - no one likes a failing sun. These things I do are rituals for the safe-side of my mind. ~~ (‘Black-dog’ is a euphemism for depression).