The dishevelled hour of 1800


When the veneer of propriety barely hangs for most and some not at all
and eyes avoid eyes in the abysmal desolation as the last fragments of light filter through the trees
We are all simply passing through this resented place
simply teetering on the precipice of bad conversation
“where did you come from?”
“where are you going?”
and you–enshrouded in a mellifluous saxophone solo or something
dreaming distantly
Do you need to break
over the phone
in an email
in a letter
a long harboured confession
simply languishing in the hour?


A moment

I thought,
overlooking the rowing boats and afternoon boaters, and trails of small wakes fading away into the water, as people came and went constantly, or sat in the shade of an awning,
do all these people have a place to which they always return? A place to go to in the end, or a person, like home, whose eyes are always tethered to the end of every somnolent thought.
Pulling away from the world for a moment (or for some hours), the day transitioned in the background as I walked along the river towards nowhere and into the evening, further into the moving picture. I walked until the silence of the river emerged and the noise of the world subsided, save for the faintest floaty music emanating from a distant café, but it too eventually drifted away.


The end begins to timely unfold, a synopticism alluding to the past a little. A journey once propelled by a smothering passion comes to a close, and begins again, a smothering passion—albeit fleeting—rekindles and tenderly permeates so seemingly slowly, like the passing of seasons. Winter still creeps in the shade, but soon it will all be reasonable.
Far away, an old discourse continues quietly, continues, the rain softly beating on the windowpane.

This Stranger

Spring wafts in the wind like a mournful sigh in the trees
when the night is new.
Crepuscular wantings flood the caliginous hour
and the hour stretches into many eternal nights of golden spring, blackened with waiting.
I begin to wonder about the sayings of his limpid eyes,
and like sonorous thunder in the dead of night, the cool virescent spring of his gaze echoes of the vast beginnings of an end.
Their gentle green embrace, so strange,
cuts through my breath.
And the insipidity that accompanies his leave, this stranger.
How many nights has it been?
Maundering from faraway thought to faraway thought, laden with being.