I feel the most alive

on cold mornings

when I still doubt my senses in

the pale glow of beginning.

and passersby assuredly brave

thawing blue-lipped canals

anticipating the pulses of

traffic and filth and children.

but now nothing pulses.

and everything breathes.


the fumbling of keys before


that space between

zero and one.

an immediate infinity

where possibility devours doubt and

nothing is ending.

there is only beginning.


nothing is ending and I

always feel dizzily purposeful against a cold sun.

because the morning is not yet the day,

as the virgin thought is not yet the tried utterance,

or as the numbers


are not time.


I’ll find the in-between and

sink into this daylight like a

glass anchor.

and I’ll never have to see the sun set,

floating gently in my

milk white Versailles.

And no one will see me.

and I will be relentlessly



Charlie Mischer, USA

One thought on “Prelude”

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