Archives for the month of: March, 2012

Breaking off from death for just a little moment,
heart-burst rain on cars and falcon glimpses,
the swish of wipers, the city hooded
under a great electrical storm, what were your feelings
when you realised the wagons had gone on without you
leaving you to the wilderness of no paths or days?

Moss covers the lost axe and his song begins once more
to revive the winding stems of climbing flowers inside you:
your eyes grow endless trees and the frenetic calls of birds
craze your sleep and begin to pull apart
the limits of your flesh and memory, it has the essence
and the purpose of a bared blade, although the lake
washes it in eras of mist and ripples, and insects,
mistaking its stillness for neutrality, cross it without concern
to trail a haze of pheromones across a night on purring wings.

Forever partisan for those who demand its power,
the song is dropped among the golden carcases of honeybees,
rolls its silence like a child’s marble slipped away
among adult feet in stations or on the
crowded carriages of outbound trains,
enlarges only solitary hearts into an ache or tangled yelp of passion,
pioneers with new worlds to master and convert
pass over his torn body with indifference or a small regret
for useless beauty and a sound
too pure for our commodity, and only later apprehend
the storm itself has been bound up with the song
and threatens us with paradise, on busy shower-doused streets
umbrellas efflorescing like mindless anemones, its haunted music
takes us aside and fills us with the terror
of virgin plains and raging sapphires and tiger stars,
brings our limitations back to us as gifts and the partial light
of troubled, trembling suns, in the pitiful hours of our division, for instants
reaches the status of a fragile notion
which, by belonging to no one, belongs to each one.


They are the moments.

Moments as gateways, moments as train rides,
moments with other people
moving slowly like the last
trickles of an avalanche
falling still,
moments which take us
on the wind,
like spores or feathers,
to places of paper and absence,
to lulls of silence, gatherings of heat:
they are the moments.

I can’t put back the summer in my veins.
I can’t forget
I have an appointment at three.
And I watch people in a silvery haze of rain
and I see them
scattering out of view
into their lives,
leaving the rain still falling,
and these are the moments —
moments of watchfulness,
moments edged with dreams,
moments of memories.

I love these moments:
moments of inattention, moments in cyber blue
on an LCD,
of the humid green streak of blurring trees,
journeys on suburban lines,
moments of emptiness and waiting,
and moments which seem to shine
with some soft internal light
a feeling so tender and so subtle
full of the gentlest promise
like buds about to blossom
or eggs to hatch
into the blind and mewing
and crawling and fragrant
purposes of spring…

They are the moments.

Moments in quiet places. At strange hours,
when I am wakeful,
and the world is still
forming like dew.

These are the moments.
Moments of unrest. Moments in the years.

These are the moments.

These are the moments
which bring me to you.