[back][index]

32. methodology



i. how


through glass, light of
late day, hazed by clouds.
warm voices lounge at 
the near end of saturday.
walk me, hand in yours,
into the diffuse light
laying a path.  another 
world on the other side.
i once said, of eternal bliss, 
"it would get dull."  but, 
this is a day for such fêtes.
i can feel calm, i can drink 
air.  longing, without an end. 
faded by the wash of distance,
foothills between us.


ii. which


guiding us towards the end,
the other world extends
tendrils, to beckon us.
sleepwalking, we tread on
shafts of light through a 
clouded sky, illuminating a jail
in the midst of the gray-hued bay.
messengers.  illuminations
on the flat waters,  where
everything is a quiet walk 
in the morning park in the 
midst of a large city.  streets
sloping towards god, signposts
pointing all the way to the 
afterlife.


iii. why

past the foothills, i can
almost touch your face, lit
by the fire of sun on the
lake.  here, we once held hands.
though strangers touch my
body, i am still sycamore,
brushed in wind, arcing
towards the blue above.  in 
spite of glass panes, i hear
whispers, your walk 
stirring dead leaves.  i am 
hollow, i am bursting with 
dew.  inhale my air,
forget your skyful of paths,
until the weight of breathing
reminds you, of my death.


iv. when


time works like the hands
of a clock, turning in circles.
this is the second time, that 
the heavens open up like a stream
of sun across a meadow, speckled
with small flowers.  in god's
fists, two leaves point to the
zenith.  i pluck a leaf and
walk east, to where the sun rises.  
mis-taking the moon's light, you
travel west.  the earth shows
stone bowls, flint arrows; all
about, our ancestors are
engaged in survival.  living 
what will never be, again.



[back][index]