“And so I go on to suppose that the shock-receiving capacity is what makes me a writer. I hazard the explanation that a shock is at once in my case followed by the desire to explain it. I feel that I have had a blow; but it is not, as I thought as a child, simply a blow from an enemy hidden behind the cotton wool of daily life; it is or will become ...
The beam of lamplight strides across the water,
Ebbing at my feet in off-blue garments -
Enamored with the crows,
As I pass here daily;
Trailing in my stride as if I were God.
Nothing is as it seems,
Once you have fallen a long way,
If only to rise again, softly, softly.
The crows know nothing of this, nor do I -
Neither, shall we choose to accept it.
To travel onwards, where the sky looms;
Rigid and sober –
The cradle rocks and festers.
Conceived as being happy,
Which it was.
Sweet whisperings of the mind’s eye.
Not a fantasy nor a reality,
The call which wavers through dreams –
Distorted images, the fashion in which you stand;
Elongated and gothic.
There is no reply,
Although occasionally I admit that I desire one.
Unadulterated; an impossibility, free from platinum bands.
The remainder of the moon is wild,
She merges within herself;
Extinguished by the shadows.
There is no luster, now.
I shall travel back, a long way,
Watching you balance on stalks,
Dancing with the gossamer threads.
My brown eyed bird,
Undomesticated, frivolous –
If only fleeting.