Sunday, 14 February 2010

The Moon reflects


THE MOON IS BLACK
THE ALPHABET OF THE TREES
SCATTERS SO MANY LEAVES.
OUR LANGUAGE
WHISPERS
FURTIVE SECRETS
AS FREAKS GO BAREFOOT,
MUSIC FLOWS LIKE WATER.
INBETWEEN SHADOW AND LIGHT,
BOOKS ARE READ FOR THERAPY
IT IS NOW MID FEBRUARY,
FIERCE WINTER
ALMOST GONE.
MEMORIES OF BAYING SECRETS,
LOVE CriEs,
it Is Coming back
UpoN ThE CrIMsON TiDE,
wherupon
the wind
blows
through our eyes,
as we flutter
and shutter.
We believe in no masters,
we believe in wildness,
are heads covered in thoughts.
Then the wind blows again,
and takes us back to where we'd begun,
from outside , we look in
our shadows fall.
As the river breathes
this is the politic of freefall,
magic is undiminished,
we don't sit alone.
Gradually what we abandon,
comes together in fevered imagination,
at some point of departure
a vanishing point.
And once where there was icy silence
echoes return, bathed in laughter.
Questions and answers
towards the end of day.

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