me and you at the park

I

We’re on the swing looking up at the sky

and the high trees and the white

clouds in the East that aspire

to be Mountains, in my mind.

You see the sickled moon in pale

daylight, like a spent light.

 

I’m looking for the spaces in between

the houses and the trees, the sky;

the pulse between two notes

of a bird-call. I see

 

the poet that lived here years ago,

walked these steps, saw the pale sky

and the low clouds in the east

that look like mountains.

 

We follow imaginary lines,

parallels like real numbers

in your mind; we want

nothing; to find the emptiness

unclaimed, attuned

to the unsubstantial

waves,

 

I’m afraid. I know where I am

tho for reals at the park

I’d say winding the path

that circumnavigates

the man-made globe;

and as I walk this day

Sunday the disconnected

dreams of the week disused

phantasms fall lightly

like silk,

 

across your fingertips.

 

II

My nerves are, ff…

frayed, I know

of a world beneath my toes

I don’t know, dead

to me, of bone the dog

might gnaw some lonesome

night.

3 thoughts on “me and you at the park

  1. That dog gnawing away on the bone of our mortality! What a lovely beat of silence in that ..
    the pulse between two notes

    of a bird-call

    The feeling of being on the swing, mountain like clouds, the spent moon, the poet who once was there, as Dean sees, can feel it, know it! One of your best, amico.

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