June 12, 2006


From a distance unknown, the sounds things make:

Interpenetrating each other, always
emerging from that ocean of sound these shell-like ears cast,
the stock of images proceeds to pile high
until the shelves cannot bear their load,
it is now time to make new room in the old space.
One repeats that chance is change,
the receipt for an eternal purchase.

The windchimes hanging
on the fourth floor veranda
mumble ceaselessly in the calm wind.
I drowse off to the sound of children in the park
who observe no time limit for their game of dodgeball:
It goes on forever.

When I wake, it is almost dusk.
The streetlights have been turned on, but the kids have gone.
I look straight up at the ceiling.
A pale, stained section of the synthetic wood catches my eye,
I am lost, it seems, at a time in which everyone is finding stuff out.

There are movements starting, hands shaking, names signed;
people are missing loved ones, without having ever known who they are.
Who are they? This question, drifts to you like an answer:
the kids in the park, the people that you miss, the first image of many,
buried deep at the bottom of the pile.


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