Pitch (August)

Little stone wall along street in unknown Macleod where I go on the night walk uphill from the station, peaceful under lights. Pitch is the sky, there stars spaced perfectly apart, apparent random fashion. My view from the unknown wall is houselights little white squares and yellow on the opposite hill, but I’m not thinking of them or their owners. It doesn’t matter being forgotten amidst stars and nightlights, as a car drives past, forgotten a while like an Irishman sits on a stone wall half the night, as they do, forgetting a while it’s August or who anyone is.

Pitch (January)

Amidst familiar furniture – bookcase, dresser, lamp – stands on emphatic table the pitch rectangle, starless impenetrable. Push the flimsy button, the black spins numbers and windows fanfare. Its rummage of icons, rash of responses, its iridescent information. We delude ourselves it’s all at our fingertips – January forecasts, rainbow ‘friends’, kaleidoscope of known, Earth’s entireties, vivid soul food. The chips are up, but what if they’re down? Who am I? Pictured hours. Closed down it resumes rectangle. We stare there, we don’t know everything. We go back into day imagining myriad unvisited links. Despite information overload we are still in the dark.