These trees swaying
in the wind; whispered
strange communication between
above & soil beneath; a gift given
from one to the other, not
simply objects but
of absence within presence.
behind words that define us, thoughts
now flowing forward surround us
like pollen, like fallen
a vast symmetry of blossoming energy.
We speak of the life we had, of
the one we now have &
those we still want all
suspended at once.
One choice must destroy the others
in this moment
of each other
as it lingers
& the rest
cannot be expressed…
Mais c’est la machine en elle qui rêvait de caresses… -Sartre
Wrong words sometimes misheard
as the correct ones,
there are no correct words,
only those more or less sufficient.)
dream disguised as prophecies while
all prophets are despised
& each day either a sombre parade
gliding quietly by,
or screaming as it runs into the night.
Were these fiercely defended fantasies
created only to be destroyed?
Is that why
we still desire them?
How strange it is that the urge to leap when crossing
a bridge so rarely corresponds
to the balance
solidarity & isolation;
it seems in hindsight
that colour depends upon more than light:
if we close or open our eyes;
the strength of our sight; what
we choose to see,
we look away.