The visible always leads to the invisible.
This is a law of dreams and thoughts.
Thus, the temporary Paris of her public library
stirs in the gusts of Saigon from the faulty air-con,
while in dusty tomes barristers hurry to prosecute historic cases
of charming villains who escaped justice
and made a mockery of their victims, and the State, and Reason.
Glowing, golden tigers, inset within the furled buds of nocturnal daisies
claw passing students from their sleep:
a dank alleyway in Venice unfolds, through fading signs,
the strangest, most obvious, most lucid emptiness of all.
Like the shimmer of fast rain falling on the surface of a secluded lake
the spaces between the electrons at the centre of the cherries
tremble, and each atom swells and rises
like adolescent boys about to flower and duel
aching to throw down their tender gauntlets to the roses.
The translucent deluge of the common night
foams at the edges of your private moment,
and your hotel room feels as frail and as potent
as a bird’s egg cracking to hatch.
You’ve packed your bags. You’ve a little time to kill,
and try to remember the name of the tune you hum and sing.
You set out on your journey to a mirror, but never arrive:
later, on a path through the light, marked by the tracks
of majestic predators,
a stranger finds your body, and you choose
to stand again, deciding it must be morning.

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