Him, the lone surveyor,
His hands tightly clasping
an object of no significant
Why do my hands
wrap so around this,
as though, through holding
this, I may somehow grasp
and grab and have and melt into
its stillness, its calm? I cannot.
This object, this, in hands,
I know not its worth, outside
the monetary (momentary) gain from which
I have given another, and,
yet, I know its worth will, in me,
as I now hold this, steady,
with no means but letting go–
Perhaps, if I allow it to, it will
fall, or perhaps it will stay,
if I am falling.
They, the jester’s mimic, aping
in their motion, holding nothing,
that the air about them stills
without a movement, but their feet,
closely wrapped and tight, as their
body’s garments cling and appear to be.
What is this? What is your foolish
bout with words, with those you speak
but know not their weight?
You know not either, you.
True, though I know you.
And? Many know me; many hold my
thoughts within their own.
Yes. Maybe. No. You are to them
as they to you, and you
know them not, as well you do.
What do you want with me–
What do you want that you
have not allowed me, yet, to
Nothing, though something, yes.
You do not confuse me with your
And you alone.
Aye. I alone.
Why? What holds you, any’, from
finding or ‘llowing for they you know
exist to find or ‘llow you to?
I lay upon this same carpet, day and night,
knowing they exist, and, yet, I feel they
would, without my knowing, just as well.
Eh. You know nothing, then.
She will find me, or allow me be
within her company, in some fashion, in
some way I know not– some way I
‘fuse to ‘magine, as I fear, yes, fear,
my mind may ruin such happenings.
Yes. Maybe. No. You fear you will not be
as the imagined, the dreamlike, you, or
they may not be, too. Such rubbish. Life is
real, as is reality.
Your reality is you.
Nonsense. My reality, now, is you, as much
reality is me, and, this, the thing
you hold, but know not the, its, worth or weight.
You say so much, and mean so little, and
I fear, yes, fear, again, my time with you
is to an end.
To an end you know not yet.
Him, having lowered the object
to His side, along His thigh.
Ah. Sweet night; sour day. So ripe the moon, in
no plucked a way, and so terribly rotten
the sun in still, a stay.
They, with neck, bent, forward,
arms to front of belly,
She, hands about Her face,
in quick gestures to an unseen
horror, played though laughable.
Such a brutish man! What a sort to
be out this moment, with no cage from
which to keep him, closed!
Closely following She, Her
friend, a feathered fellow of
more stature than the tongued.
Oh, there you are! Where did you go for that
time I saw you not? Always flying, you, to
where, you never let me know. Oh, but that
is yours, this place you go, where you, alone,
Far from view, Him, with little but His
eyes to see Her; staying, though in rush.
And what a speech! So little’s said, and more
I know than if not so! Ah, but where would I be
by you? To say the world, mine, would be
if not your little speeches, and your beak,
so long, but rarely full of not. Oh, I saw this
most lively of two today, sifting in
their seats a vision of their company
through years I, in age, know not.
So comforting, they, with no need but
worry for one, other. How brutal, time, when
no means of knowing its extent lies near,
in hand or eye, as though to
go through days were but the shifting
of the Satellite and Sun, and not the
sifting of such memories, such thoughts,
and places, and ‘speriences, been!
Him (with no length of voice):
Who..? Wh?–Who is she, this helden
creature, whose voice knows not the fade of
distance? Who is she, this being, still, with
air around her, so rapidly wrapping itself,
as though she be its beginning, nigh its ending?
Oh, why don’t you fly to her; you know she’s there,
somewhere amongst your views, your visions, eyes, if
only then, and may’ not now? Do you like your following
of me? Is my life so seen by you as worth a need
of entourage, a likeness of some queen?
Oh, you’ve learned my points! I cannot fault you
for your staying, though you will leave, or I,
and you will find they you seek so clearly,
if through me.
Him, His eyes beneath His ‘brows,
widening to full roundness of a
Who was that man? Why stand so far,
yet hold your eyes squarely ‘pon me? So
creepy, yet I feel a need of knowing who they
Yes. Maybe they were here as I, in view of
what a line, so far, horizon, may give if brought
a bit more close to eye.
You crazy thing. The weather’s growing warm;
I fear we may be stuck if not undoing of these
heavy, old clothes. Let’s go home, yes?
She and hers, Her eye, turning, slowly
thinking, taking in the spot from
which He left so soon before.
The sun reaches noon, with no sign of falling.
Him, His hands exploring freely the
depths in pockets of pants, shaking
shoulders in a show of wrestled thoughts.
Why these thoughts? Why would I, in some
way I know not, believe in what I’ve never known,
merely guessed or shown in falsehood, in want? Is this
a similarity of that? Is this but want?
No. I need her. I need she, this speaker, she.
How her words, on they she saw, sifting, make
so right the world, as, she said,
hers. She, Princess, queen of they, and how
her words, her– ah, I recall them not, though
know their memory, and she be so right,
worldly in her lengthened speech,
brought on breeze, hers, to me– and, yet,
I feel as thief, taking these, her memory,
and placing them within some wordings,
unaccustomed to her freedom, speech.
They, with loose shirt on,
and pants so, too.
Ah, and there you are. What way did you come
this time? I did not see you from our route,
though you may have scooted by without my noticing.
They hold out their hand, waiting for drops of
rain, though no clouds are present.
Amazing; no rain today, and yet you seem
so happy, as you always do when leaky
clouds wind by.
You and your patterns. Leave mine alone,
and I will not give you your
Hah! Mine? And what is mine? I have but
one, though many more may be seen.
You are a talker, though I never tire of
I would hope not. You say them, too, and
what use would be in what you use if
what you use were grown tired of?
Yes. Yes; I would say you were right.
Nothing. You are right, and I am but
tiring of the hour.
Ah, and, here, you know it well.
Aye. So quiet here, though not, as thoughts grow loud.
Hah! And what do you hear?
Do you see the clouds?
Yes. Maybe. No. The sky is clear.
When not; do you?
Yes. Maybe. When I look.
And beyond the clouds?
Yes, even without their presence.
When the air is still or slight, I see the
clouds in full might of turning worlds,
and hold my head to sky, to stars, if
not they there, then wait, for are not
they when they are and not?
I see this, a vision, though its method
rests in eyes of sight, not mind, alone: A spread,
a flying, wing’d one, with only dust about its
flappings, too quickened for to move, but, still,
this… butterfly, a dragonfly less-tail, wing’d, wanders
above the dust, with no friction, only reflection, a single
way to eye; though, spread, I fear others see
I do not.
Aye. And you will, now I’ve shown you where.
Yes. Maybe. No. You see me, and yet I
But a single mirror and that problem is fixed for full.
So flat a mirror, image, gleamed of all that matters– move’,
yes, and light, but nothing more. So flat.
Such a ‘mage, though, and still a way of sight.
Yes. But you didn’t mean a view of sight alone.
Aye. I alone may see the view as more, the Butterfly
as more than movement, there, though what do I know
of more? Such vision, steal of eye, and more. So
stilled, as in thought, though there, holding
sky in capture, longing for a way of gift of giving
to a devoted one, who may hold such close a bundle,
far from grasp of mortals, they who ruin such things as
things and not as hands, as God’s, but fall’n and raised
in view to be as humbling, holding so tight a cross of
soldered steel and touch of light; the heaviest
of seen, though not of sight.
They, a glimpse of smile, held on walk from Him.
So light this air, a wonder the birds fly. And what of
this one, here, in quick dive to sit beside me now?
Hers, followed by calls from far, though, slowly,
from angles, growing closer.
You! And what of you? So free to fly, with no means
but wing, and so jealous those bellow you seem! What
of you, then?
Aye. You are wise not to talk to me– you would seem to soon fall
in trap of quicksanding conversation.
Aye. Yes, “up.” Do you mean, “shut,” or, “look”? ..Neither?
Her, with arms towards hers, though dropping
loosely, to side, when within reach.
There! I’ve thought you found another!
You wise, wing’d one! What mean you for scaring me? Have
I not been truly faithful in my servitude, oh king? Or
were you merely venturing to where you felt a comfort,
breeze? ..Did the winds lead you here?
You will be the death or life of me; I have not ‘cided yet.
Hers spreads wings, flying in sudden spirit and on the arm of Him.
And who’s this you’ve found to ‘place me? Have you
been in secret with them? Such games I knew you did not
Well, then, since remaining tight-beaked is he, perhaps
you will tell me of his follies in your sight?
He stares, much more in loss than gain of
words or fair tidings.
Well! You both seem near the same, yet one have lips and mouth
yet to speak, while other a vocabulary much less than those,
words, but preceding these. Oh, and so another reason for the
sun to stay and bake my skin, so not in need of such naturalities.
Him (having found breath for words in thought and swallowings):
He merely flew upon this, your perch of proximity, slightly ‘fore
you stood there, too; and I knew not his reason, nor
his comings from, though now, I gather, you, from calls so
made to find you here; and he made way from far, and
I feel he, from there, now found restings here. But, for a
reason I know not, he took from here to this, my arm,
and now I’ve found myself and him in sharp, tight hold,
and I fear, if broken, my, not his, blood may spill.
Nonsense. What use have you to bleed for him? He has not given to you
but perch, a means of being still, and I, much less you, may
bleed, though not physically, if he does not leave, or break hold, of you.
He is yours; call him, lure him as you will.
Here. Come. I’ve got treats in a dish in our home, if
you do come, or, if not, none.
Hers spreads wings, stretching ‘fore he rests, still
on His arm.
Well. This is not good, and I know not another way.
Perhaps he has tired of the flight, and pulls himself in
slacked acceptance of his place.
You may be right.
She walks toward Him, standing beside Him, with Her
arm stretched to match His own.
Here, lazy, I’ve come to you.
Hers turns to Her, placing first foot on Hers, then, from Him,
Aye. There you are. Are you happy? Your friend has returned,
and you are no longer looking, calling, finding him.
Yes. I was so frantic; I believed he had left, but, here, he is, and
with me now, and I with him. I saw this couple on my callings
here, who looked to me, both so calmly, with a smile, and, for a second,
more, I shared their face, their laugh of mine-made, and knew,
somehow, I’d find him, here, or somewhere, here. They were so
cute, they, these two, with heads, so bowed by no need of being high;
both turned, in perfect unison, a unity united by an unseen,
though heavy, weight of age, and I, though I knew not their
names or fate, felt as though I knew them for far longer than
myself, and hold them, still, though they move, within my
thoughts. So peaceful, they, these two.
Aw, and such a sight as they would be so great a memory.
Much more a model be.
You, in set of Sun, seem as though a life in light is lived,
held as though a Sun in you is made, with eyes and smile,
and, excuse my speech, you seem as happiness, if beyond,
and you are, the misery of having lost your friend, this, he.
And you are excused,
though I do not know why you would
ask or need to be.
I… You see the lightest lights in Heaven’s veil; those they
call, “stars,” though I see them more as unfall’n hail?
I see them, yes?
He raises arm, with slight-deep stabs of hers, to high,
finger straight with line of eye.
Before the bend of dome is bent back to? Beneath the shadow,
though appearing ‘bove?
She moves closer to Him, behind Him, hers to His other side,
so She may line with His eye.
I do. Yes.
He gives a breath, before latching to a breeze
There, those points, these, hold such weight in mind,
this Butterfly, a stitch in time, as being quiet visitor of
night, spread toward crossing sky, with but build of
eye to know its ‘sistence, though I feel it’s free, inverse
of hold, as spread of me, and, from this, I find a way
of moving, though motionless.
Your place is so far, and yet, with you, near; and, though you’ve
shown me where, I feel it’s here.
He returns to breeze, and holds Her hand, free, with wing’d one
silent, spreading, resting; and She smiles in the cool of night as
whispers wind their way around Them.
The above work is protected under Australian Copyright Law and International Copyright Treaties, as well as a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 2.5 License.
edited, on 8/22/06, from the original.
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