during the subtle return
marked by brushed-green fallow fields.
Prose stirs no call
as my hand breaks line
each time I try to turn
a sentence over onto
its thin lyrical belly.
On days where I utter no phrase
and my voice trembles at thoughts so lofty
an echo wakes me
into wide-arm greetings
marked by the muteness
wrought by bedside musings,
and the huming drone of bees.
My pastoral sights
do no fall or fail
even when I touch the rust
dwelling,
drowning at the bottom of the fairest local stream.
When diving into shimmering passions,
each press of flesh sinks into my forehead
as I close my eyes to dance in a painting
possibly to sing in a chorus
of notated bedsheets.
"Poet!
You speak loudly
about these passions and memory
the reoccuring absurdity of life
which our makings of matter
surely have done away with!
It all howls undoubtedly
a cry of a primitive age!"
So I have heard say
the men and women of dear contrasts and selection.
No mind to them,
for rumour has it
that they have forgotten how to dance;
the machines move for them
Rummaging betweens the lines of nostalgia and longing,
these quiet times
met by shortfalls
press my lips upward
in a seizure of remembrance
to mark the march of feet
pitter-pattering in a luscious circle.
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