looking out the window
everything is rotating. Everything is radiant. Everything is on radials, resplendent.
Yet doubly distant. Where are the names for these faces, the shadows I’ll love in spite of- losing track of the minutes and routes, you can’t go home, Cohen moan-groaning roses and wars, things by any other name, warden of words. Dry fire. Haneen leaned over my shoulder, what is that? A mass of spirals snaked across pages. War of roses. She reached over my wrist and traced opposite three characters, right to left, consonants. That is rose, she said. I’d been living backwards.
Sol, lucero, diamente, estrella y rosa. Always lost in the sea
There is one word for “blessed” and “wounded” you told me seriously
1.80€ one way, 40% volume established 1820.
(Thomas, who had spent the last ten years of his medical practice working exclusively with the human brain, knew there was nothing more difficult to capture than the human eye.)
Unter den Linden, Ranelagh, Termini, Benedicti, Saint Lazare San Francisco Seattle. Saint Stephen’s Green, Saint Steven’s
awful mall coffee. Expense, theme, curtain. Palestine spilling against the wallboards, a country existing in slides and picketlines, the smell of oranges and bulldozers. Drinking parting glass, il bicchiere dell’addio. Congruity continuity particulier à particulier. You and I are imagination and ink. A candle within oval lantern, several glass panes and million tongues of flame.
You burn me this distance, though you are cold to the touch, whispering wind or gurgling water.
Your lips are all the wine in the world, or the other way. Your eyes are my fiction, your feet moist are clinging to the earth, wet from stamping roads and postage. Your diction is the silence of 4am direction unknown. Your obligation is nothing. Your hairs are maps and lines at theatre. Your retinas carry the pale subterranean glow of the eternal cinema.
Watching you I’m dancing across the emptiness of these rooms where we’ve met ourselves, amidst the randomness of all, attracted by chance, attributed towards youth. My truth is hunger. My promise is slightly overcast, showers ‘o chance. My dance is series of entwining mosaics of luggage and lipstick that I let to drift alongside roads.
Sur la mer il y a un grand pré, après- que le grand vent qui vente