Sunday, July 17, 2011

Falling, Slowing, Flying

                                                           Today
all was usual                a hot July afternoon
there were streams of poplar seeds on side streets
he had been thinking about what she had said
                       What is not spoken is unspoken often

Cutting for more precision          on the index finger
the splinter                 could not be removed

He showed her in the shade to see her
reaction to what he had been thinking          the sun
against the cloudless sky
                      neither of them resting just yet

In the small park
it felt as if the earth opened for them
as they passed into the sky          he had to ask her
                     if this were flying or

Always having seen her walk
which set her to song          her voice as haunting
as her shining black hair               his gait as heavy

                                              The statue poised
the inscription          readable though weathered illegible away
the trees majestic         silent waiting on the edge
restless perpetrators        the heat        unwilling to relinquish

                                     Locked in world time zones
they talked and then fought and then talked
and fought and it was like that    relentless    rehearsed

She would appear central in his thoughts         then go off
on her own            meanwhile            everyone but themselves
continued planning                   cities far away

Eating ice cream            with plastic spoons
he had no idea             how to die             kept living
                        turning away from the air

I don't care            he lied            I know you do
she insisted         listen         just listen    yes and no
to change    it does matter into what

The longer one lived        the less it matters

A young family intruded             the baby
betrayed his eyes        he thought more about after
when a stenciled girl held a red helium heart
                 on the portal of hospice

They wore the scent of Paris burning

He drove         He said nothing         She in the backseat
He glanced between the houses catching the river

It was still         the canopy of foliage
forced him to look down
           he dared not share the tunnel of love

Her bags zipped shut full of yesterday's possessions
held the young child's question
                       How do you become a butterfly

When you want to fly so much you stop being a caterpillar