the inconvenience of being
everything sings and swirls
beckons and pushes back
every moment is lived in love.
the blue of the sky encloses me
the hush of our unspoken-ness
weaves itself in the whispers of
the evening shadows; the tremor
of passing time rushing through
the veins is cause enough to
smile. if i could fly now, i will
alight in your garden and smell
the roses drenched in sea-breeze
and heavy with spray.
2.
i smell of smoke from
the fire we made this
evening, and of charred
potatoes, and of words
which died in my heart...
suffocated, unable to climb
out. hold me gently o night,
i who wanders the meandrous
pathways of this strange
journey silent and alone
3.
the leaf borne by the breeze
sways, falters, is deposed on
its coordinates with such grace.
a movement vibrant with the
being of non-being: the life of
death; it hangs no more; the
clawing branches that held it
have loosened their grip at
last: it is free to go, to graft
wings and fly into the light,
or bury itself in the sombre
burrows of the runic night
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