|
Sonata of Lean Words |
I
Foreland stretches like a memory reflected
in relaxed ponderous thought
But forgot it had been ambitioned
by the prospect of its fear
A man under a hat thought to himself:
Am I intemperate?
Flooded streets still being depressed
And it formed a sound in his mind
That did not stop.
He attempted to mend or close or attempt,
and thought
I wish to be strange
And talk to no one
I would rather not meditate or contemplate and
most of all
I would rather not spin my thumbs in circles and
whisper to myself.
Or think of myself. Now it makes my spirit descend
Higher than a kite in China.
II
The world is vacant.
Its cavity will be filled by the street which has
but moonlight to color the flooding water
Where an envelope floats away and will soon fall
into the gutter.
That was a letter addressed to me
But I’m afraid that I’m no wind and cannot send
gray skies their way
But I do not mind. I could never appease my own
distaste for the ones to whom I am a ticket
It has no importance now
We live in very different places.
III
But, he thought, could I live always in the same
place?
And mind myself like a nurse a dying woman and
while combing my gray hairs stand my face?
Oh, my cigarette. Now, there is a spot
on the floor
How seclusion is fidelity itself
And as he knelt with a sponge on the floor
he thought
But memory is a puny branch among grand trees
which memory twists in its own solemn reflections
but still like an illness
What noise I make
What noise my illness makes as I am nothing but a
tourist en route and it takes my blood like a
purse
I have inhaled of its ashes
And note to avoid such like
IIII
My thumbs will grow tired
When I reach the crossroads of my paces and
am fallen silent
And am unsure of its gist
I am sure to ask
Was I drunk on thoughts that searched for a
person, or greater,
Or simply for loss
Feeble from abused ideas and stress in a turning
and lacking psyche
But given fervor and senses and possessors, the
knowledge swift and unshaped
Always knowledge that's enduring isn’t a word
Or it will not be a word
Half a mind hopes to never meet it.
copyright 2004
Alain Marcel
Treadaway |
