Home
The treble since leaving; the screech, the engines,
mechanical lungs, cymbal, drum, slice of sliding doors,
the meddle of straight lines chiselling the space
around expansive curves; no cello. Slime, billboards,
neon signs, a cityscape painted pollution, lip curled
rebel graffiti stretching our sights up and over
the nape of walls lining up with reasons...
graffiti shouts down at hammer feet guests
on tarmac; shuffling, ducking and diving,
the busy-ness of heading somewhere - and still,
how infinite seems the small space of quiet within,
found in an eye on a train, or in a cabin under the sea,
through a rusty metal hull - silence swells to send
the city symphony hurtling, quietly faraway...
in search of space, for time to expand that look,
graffiti these walls; cello horsehair on the string,
pull a note to carry faraway - or quietly, in sleep,
dream sonata on electric folds of silk, in a nap
pull the lidded bow lightly over skin, in the calm
after rondo folds of silk, again, a still point,
in a serenade home, where a bell rings faraway
along the scent of shoreline where I would like to be
when hands wrap metronome around desire
in the silent hum where I am home in moments
so peaceful with you
