Pivot by Andrea Brady

The light that pivots away from us
at your point in this year
makes you gorgeous and sleep
and always returns to you,
                through the ellipse coloured
                red for winter.

And the possibility of loss
is the sharpening edge whose peril
cuts your benefits 
out in strong relief, it also returns, 
                not as habit
                but as force that drives the work

that drives away death: this love of the earth,
this shining hot exuberance that needs
everything indifferently. The 24th
returns us to each other, across
                gaps in sight and distances
                which aren’t so great, treats

the vibrations as the motor blocks
tick over. The things are all just two 
kinds, everything in the sky
feeds them, nothing
                is indifferent. We are two kinds
                made not in each other’s images

but recently, and then our bodies slide
across the pure mathematics
which rule their orbits, becoming less
than one, a continuity
                which can be trusted
                to keep

returning, whenever faded, through the red 
that casts our love in relief 
a halo holding the whole system,
a field of work, a starry meadow,
                a human, you think
                you’re the gift of all the gods you see around us.


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