Blue
Here, your life: a well- worn sweater, blue, soft, a cup of tea, endless sky, something about something knitting pleasant lines inside your head, the wind unravelling tree-heads, petals falling, bees falling, tears falling, sometimes, tearing your heart sometimes, still the hand holding tight a hand holding tight, the moon a name, you call, it calls, the moon a smile, holding tight, mornings coming after nights. And there, on another side: a world imploding, a people imploding, a time imploding, loud, then quiet, loud, then quiet, nothingness has no beating heart, has no beat, no heart, screaming ages into crying ages into silence, silence stays young forever, hands grasp hands that grasp the air and nights come, nights go, nights circle until night is bombed into the night. In between: a river, a river that rushes, rushes slowly, over it a single bridge. Spare and strong and made of pewter sun. Curved and broken and made of powdery cold. A bridge that can grow or shrink over a river than can grow or shrink over time that can grow or shrink. The way it is written, the way it is sung, the way it goes away, the way it goes that way, the way it goes only one way, a life can be lived, a life can begin, a life can end, without ever setting foot on it. Without ever knowing the other side. Blue sweater with a hole for the head. Blue sky through a hole in the head. Blue head. Blue sky. Blue river. Blue bridge, empty, quiet, spanning blue night and blue night.
#Poetry
From Jan 2024


A requiem for both the living and the dead. Sometimes it's hard to tell where the border lies.
This is beautiful—the repetition and sounds—mesmerizing and haunting.