[11 June 2019]
And so we wander to and fro,
You and I,
Smelling of sandstone and sawdust
Dapple-dangling Orion from his heavenly perch
(The incense died out last night but the smell lingers on):
Empty streets and wicker baskets and laborious effort
Shape could-not-have-beens into Dumas and Aeschylus
And Bonaparte,
Leading you to wonder whether the Persian rug lying between us
Wasn’t covering up something twice its size
(I deign to comment).
The point of inevitability –
The point of abstraction –
Lies just beneath the overwhelming conclusion that
Time is immemorial
I say as I hand you a biscuit (chocolate squares and honey)
But nevertheless the majesty fragments, supines, delves deep down:
Grandeurs itself beyond all point of pretension.
Abraham and Isaac both brought an offering.
Your face rubs up against the steam from the tea pot,
As if abstractability is something that can be regressed,
Purged of its selfness between the Coker and the bathroom door.
Dust settles into the quiet places,
The places routinely untraveled by design or fear or routine.
Beauty grows in the shadows we’ve made.
I really should be going, you say.
Must you, I say.
Really, I must, you say.
You stand up to go.
Love is something beyond itself
You call back to me as you put on your brogues.
I see you to the door and hand you a last biscuit
Before you leave and your footsteps echo on in the hallway
Behind the closed door.
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