Cold sting of rain for my eyes
baptized again a nonchalant flower
roots gripped deep, in the dirt.
On the spring
On spring wildflowers to come back
On the ones
who spoke to me once to speak
to me again
and when I look at them in dependence
I resemble the child
wanting for love.
The seasons change. People go.
For no reason
a leaf is spinning across a field.
It sweeps by afflicted eyes—attentive eyes
that study its free fall
and keep watch to see if one fleets again.
Prolonged between sightings
is The wait,
as retrospective eyes re-play that leaf’s haply grace
alone in reverie, gravely expecting miracles:
That leaf will not come back to swoon
was destined to flourish and die in the earth.
Poets come, and write a line for memory.
I dedicate my life for memory!
A car is going down the road, two boys.
Neither of them speak. In a driveway,
One boy gets out and says goodbye
To the other, who drives off.
An upset girl wants her boyfriend to leave.
The apartment door is closed shut behind him.
He is on the sidewalk, cars passing him by
Like meteor showers of distant minds.
There is not one person to intervene
with the mad indifference.
Not one voice to share and sing the madness of its silence.
They are all quiet.
They are all drawn
to The war of homeostasis.
The garrulous people open fire to save common speech.
A loner is shot down while running to his solitude.
Lovers kick over his dead body to get to each other.
Each in his own pursuit.
Ants swarm around the dead butterfly.
It sits in one place all day, with the ants.
The street lamp sits in one place all year, next to the ants;
No one stops to look at either.
I see unexplainable impulsive wonders in these gems.
I have stopped and looked many times.
I share with you the lonesome admonition of the street lamp.
You are no different from others.
You are witness to life on earth.
You are not insane.
You have a Voice.
Measuring by how little you use it, it is no wonder you feel so insignificant.
In a garrulous city where the streets are lined with faces during the day
a standstill commences like clockwork every nightfall, like a train
slow-rolling into the station, shutting the engine off.
Each passenger is led out the open doors and up falling sunset lanes
to abodes of friendship, methodically wiping out the crowded streets.
There is one person left out who will meet no one nor go home: a rigid tacit:
he emerges from the mindless shadows of the street lamps, knowing
exactly where to go. He wanders inside the nightly Standstill of Time—as others move onward—revisiting memories in familiar places, afraid, afraid to explore out of it, into the Unknown risks.