Friday, July 22, 2011

Like the moon up there

Early in the afternoon they were playing in the temple
They were looking forward to further dancingness and singingness.
They could find the presence of absence in the action of memory.
They might find timescapes to share.
Just beyond the industrial area they passed fire trucks and sirens,
gas stations, a car wash and a truck stop sprouting rubber hoses everywhere.
A girl carried an empty chair searching for the porch.
Feathers fell wavering to the carpet green.
The land was flat and ordered.
The streets were empty.
They sat against a wall of old Korean script beside the family of ten.
At the table behind a man wore a shirt calling for a revolution.
The rain fell off and on washing the earth never quite clean enough.
They returned home turning on the soft lights.
The closeness, the warmth, the silence of intimacy.
The sound of a drum, pansori and minyo.
Rich layers of traditional love chants.
Discordant harsh play lines recited from memory stacked over the carpet green.
The fullness and flowering would not leave.
Just before deep darkness
the ancestors rolled into the dreamtime with memories of sky flowers.

:: Note :: ... the years roll by ...