sometime betweentime - Broz- Anna

March 29, 2018

Hand print_sometime between time finding in time

no companionship beside that sudden unpredictable

minstrel; watching people walking gently insidevision like the ebb and flow of

some far tide and pigeons fall out of the sky patchworked on it

instead of fallingleaves.

 

The city square_buses growling and rumbling

somewhere a cricket; night not far distant, hidden behind pale blue

silver-grey, a shimmer of a sky_A man stands motionless

contrasts this citypicture perhaps placing flaking shellfragments

from my image behind his weary glasses

he leaves me alone, rubbing and scraping, till clear white

is revealed beneath_No restful darkness for this one. 

 

Bridge water_time, as if so many broken shards

of holographic mirror, can never be separated, never joined; if I write a poem

of my own time … is it gone … _Underbetween a menacing black the row of shining

motorbike wasps and this flatspace of weary grass and footsteps_The black faded

centre of avoid is present – right here – inside white lines, beneath

mechanical velocities. 

 

Parisienne townhouse_a life lived halfbalanced, on a corner

at the bottom of a steep hill, leafy dappled with streetlight in the night, on the rise of

the footpath, where you can slow up after letting go of the brakes; secrets could be

kept, tangling over philosophy, wethink weunderstand, soaking it up, something

to do with the age-group_You know what it means, I don’t but you can’t

tell me because I don’t know what it means. 

 

Winding_this life, words appearing

in droplets, textured like that, burnished; pain has a palpable sound_It’s

like carbohydrate crunchiness, it’s like a clock, it’s like a thing dragged over

the metal windings and back again_A pen metallicised, special, someone else’s

unknown, that golden face and darkeyes – bunch

of memories, imagination providing. 

 

Your guitar_clear soprano whispering and the bejewelled notes of steel,

and afterwards, the persistentringing and hesitant voice groping at conversations

till pure love is left only, helpless, exposed. 

 

The wind_promising shivers, smooth chapping some other, harshly cool, shapes

being only an invention of one, perhaps not so great? who named himselfwise

in a monkey’s framework and left that treepeace behind him for some strange comfort

that turned his lungs to ashes, turned his head to pain

in tomorrow’s dreams where the movements of the soul_flutters and forgets_

the unreality of weariness … there I must go now, and soon

expect to forget, like so many_But not

you … I don’t forget you. 

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