taken aback

our glances--like a stranger’s cigar-smoke in a distance rising to the warm azure sky--disperse
and a procession creases your forehead.

memories

have you ever swam to the bottom of a memory?
an unravelling song of sadness and sinking scripts amid seaweed
a scene of a hand slipping, struggling to find some solace
stones sliding down the spines of secret lovers
a cleansing of wounds washed ashore
summer brush-strokes on a wooden canoe under sparkling stars
a smiling figure swaying silently -– someone, somewhere that meant something
silver silhouettes sympathizing with dying souls

But, perhaps some memories are bottomless:
sudden flashes with no end

bystander

I watch a battle between a dream—unlit—sinking
and reality—narrow—bleeding :
Intimacy is always at the edge of an ache, a crack, a rupture
ready to leap over the edge of a rupturing crack

a ripple

This is the thing about old wounds — they are threads of bursting rivers winding and spiralling between the palms of a stranger whose persistent whispers form tidal waves.

to travel per chance to live

i yearn to travel with purposelessness to a feathery-clad heaven
and sleep on palm trees that bare freedom -- meandering
around the tips--
i carry the evening sky in a bottle, strawberry-flavoured
sweet as a shimmering romance on sparkling springs
echoing beethoven’s schicksal

a line

Let’s make it a bit more complicated, shall we: your soul, a pavement -- open, bare, concrete; my soul, a cloud —- translucent, light, intangible.

...

i have concluded that the centre of my life is not whole, but a self-disguised universe full of blurry stars and a hand-woven moon. this "centre" lies in the corner of the sleeping house of sleepy souls and sleepless nights. within in it, i’m nearly opened and as lucid as an opaque glass filled with fog.