[28 June 2019]
Let us go back to the time of porcelain bowls and clay pots –
The evening sky stretched above us like Indra’s net
(A time not yet known, but sounded down through a known,
Winding and wounding and weaving together
Somethings that meant nothing less than everything on their own)
The night stretched out before us like Hippolyta’s belt:
Streets with roads and ways that fork and branch red
And blue and green and you.
Dew lingers on the doorknob
Gathering greatnesses
Condensing longings
Distilling desire down to its finest point.
You reach out to turn the key;
Your hand is not wet.
Somewhere between tea time and two,
Your face will appear in the mirror, shocked;
Juxtaposed between an already and a not yet,
Strung out and stratified along the contours of the window frame,
Calling to mind a certain figure, awaiting her fate
(Loom in hand, though half as worthy) for the final note to play.
The image splits, doubles,
Doubles down, doubles in on itself.
The head splits from the neck,
The seed from the vine.
It is in that moment, when the history of our deeds
Is re-opened and rolled out before us (like a forgotten scarf
Embroidered with a name so old you can scarce recall that
Your name is the one written there)
You’ll turn to me in that moment and say
Is it really true that all our journeyings and our wanderings
Have amounted to no more than this?
I’ll smile. A wan smile. Worn and wanting, but warm.
No more than this, I’ll say;
No more, but certainly no less.
—
This post was reblogged at
Truth Troubles
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