These trees swaying
                    in the wind; whispered
strange communication between
the unseen,
above & soil beneath; a gift given
from one to the other, not
simply objects but
                their shadows;

the echo
        of absence within presence.

The weight
        of silence
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
& yet
in this moment
the scent
of each other
            as it lingers
upon us
        is all
              that matters,

& the rest
cannot be expressed…

The River

Everything moves in the river,
even the stones erode slowly &

We are no exception.

If you try becoming a prisoner
in love with their guard, then maybe
existence wont be so hard

when you search for the spirit in the bone
be prepared for disappointment:

the sickness is indiscriminate &
it never goes away.

Everything moves through the river,
everything decays.

You are no exception.


On a Saturday afternoon,
running through the busy streets,
a lunatic screams:

“On the far side of the desert,
there lies the open!”

The crowd listens,
forced from inattention
to focus on this strange woman,
who's voice reaches them all
regardless of their distance.

For a second
she holds herself still;
though she's a physical presence
her appearance isn't settled:

she is a synchronous image
of the terrifying
& the sublime.

Then, she begins to speak again,
her voice softer now,
but no less loud:

"Between the desert & the open
there is an ocean!
It is up to us,
& us alone,
to construct the bridge
which will allow us to pass over
the unfathomable darkness
that lies deep beneath the water."

Throughout the crowd ripples a deep unease,
an undercurrent stronger than the sea:

she disturbs them,
this woman disrupting their consumption.

All they want is to be left alone so
that they can purchase objects & atone
for the sin of wanting
what cannot be bought, but
they've been taught will save them
if only they try hard enough.

She senses this,
attuned as she is
to the hostility of others:

she is speaking to the distance.

"We can be deceived by belief
in what is not true, but
we can also be deceived
by not believing the truth…

to acquire that which we desire
first we must suffer
the fear we wont endure;

& we need to do it without knowing
the possibility of success, because
live must be lived forwards yet
can be only understood backwards."

Confused by this disturbance,
annoyance spreads like a spore through the crowd;

some cease to listen, while others
throw out angry words
only to find them return
as words of shame
generated from a place
they never knew existed;

some in the crowd are transfixed,
but the woman doesn't know this,
accustomed as she is
to rejection.

These silent admirers remain hidden,
lost to anxious thoughts
about what the others might be thinking.

Her message finds a motion of it's own.
Now, even she isn't sure what she means,
only that it needs to be said:

“The bud unfurls into the blossom”
she says, as she somehow produces a flower
& rolls it between her slender fingers
“just as this” – & suddenly the flower
becomes a ball of paper – "will unfold
into what they've always been."

The anaesthetised audience walks away,
but the attentive stay
& begin to approach.

Suddenly she becomes desperate:

this wasn't supposed to happen;
she doesn't want disciples,
only for people to listen.

"The present must die
for the future to live;
the music is always playing
& if you do not dance
then why continue to exist?
But however well we dance
death will still persist!"

Soon she is surrounded by questions,
& unable to always give the desired answers,

she disappears.

Our Silences

For S

“The moment exists only in silence…” – Søren Kierkegaard

I like our silences,
        those shared moments
transcending the hungry gaze,
that float into
a simple but absolute attention.

I like it when we're quiet
        because then, when
our eyes meet & I see you seeing me,
I can believe
        in the existence
        of what you see.

Your silence is still & speaks to me
like star-light speaks of intense heat:
defined by perspective & proximity,
        a secret
revealing in concealment,
traversing immense distance
to bring colour,
                    & life.

In silence, as in soil,
slow roots grow strong,
& the dilation of every second
        endures beyond
the depraved authority of time; we
cease to be a complex pattern
woven from
          a fabric of neurons
& electrostatic dreaming,          
to become

something more,
something I am only sure exists when
we twist together between & beneath
        each other,
sharing our body heat,
giving the prayer of our attention &
seeing beyond the iris reflection,
to where it lays waiting

        in the silence.

* Attention and Will – Simone Weil