Now the magic in my hands has left me
how will she reach the shore? I carve out a slice of Earth willing it to carry the germs to awaken her skin an eyelash swims through the dust as this wayfarer is swallowed up by the next hill By that gate I stood
disappearing yarn after yarn snagged by any traveller gliding by adding to the fray as I question their direction All exists in queues and we do not like to wander beyond the real in horizontal lines We try to form clusters who feed off candlelight as we learn our history Vespers tidy up the pattern peeling off my face, a thread in the breeze I offer least resistance The last word I'll say is the hopeful fact that my old city is made of water flowing over the smoothest of stones smells and sounds remain the same
but the flying gets heavier nonetheless carrying the quality we need to find our ground that healthy loneliness of nomads here on show's the one truth that can be: when at risk of being broken by the wind the only way to bring a kite down and embrace it tightly in your arms is to open your hands and let go a new love of earth replaces evaporation. I shall be greeted on my return by the suggestion of herbs over low heat in the cleanest of homes. To soberly begin again. an overfed pigeon
picks between overanxiousness and letting go and I have yet to learn to clothe peace with choice the sparks subside my hand feels hair among the wires bitter is my longing my appetite organic it could be morning now on the shores of another sea window closing
a blade slicing existence a unit of memory waterproof but not immune from the sweet moisture of tears electricity is the purest form of rapture eyes burn as the engines, lanterns, heat and loss
all search for my two hearts in the night above Kowloon ginger pixels of flavour and sugar
all work together as consummate dancers and cherry-pick the neurons to titillate never to miss any point of existence is my asynchronous vow to the fleeting god of otherness and speed and my prayer is for infinite balance as the stage lights fade in. when roofs are conceived and constructed
to fend off sheets of light reverberations of heat waves of staleness and it rains the spectacle is divine crashing at wrong angles the droplets fan open dance off, spin down, twist out the flow of traffic and drills stands still and in awe of a thousand sacred drummers announcing the arrival of change This city feeds its sap
through rivets and bolts and if we could display our love pagodas known to us would tell when paper was expensive no lesser thoughts would soil it but now I spend my steps with humble hardship dwellers : I commit questions to parchment but cannot yet lighten my tread. I have always believed in this orange part of the morning. |
Categories
All
Archives
March 2024
|