If there were someone with to talk. The flowing canal, tarrying only for me; the drink now facing me so I may lift it to my lips. But whom shall bring to me the image. The thought, so worthy of comment that I might, in earnest and with heart spurred outwards, invite a soul to sit. Converse with me, I would say: sip from mine own glass. You have become divine through the image that moved you, become whole in the singularity of what you transmit. We now share in its bounty, but also in the burden of its event: for we become immobile in its carcerate grip, unable either to surpass the limits of its evocation or to turn back, once and for all, to the hearth where the image was one, and we one with it. You sit and our eyes revolve to meet. We see ourselves in each other and with ease; we glance away, fixing into memory this retention without hope, this recognition that is not faith, this confirmation neither material nor ideal, and fall lax as fallen leaves in the immortal autumn wind.
« « « Leave a comment » » »
1 Comment
You must be logged in to post a comment.
doo bie
dooby doo
October 26th, 2007 | #