To the past
we offer
only the streaming tresses
Of our hair
tangled
by the wind.
----Mayakovsky.

Nothing happens. This is the way it is. Stars tick over. Search for a name, if you like. If you must. Return. Only traces. Otherwise nature's infinite silence haunts us. Dark mirrors prolong it.

Cellophane sparkles. For a moment. At the right distance, with the right light, anything can be precious. There is a kind of peace here, under these tents. The crows know it. Black eyes survey the trash. The canvas flaps in the breeze. Hard to tie it down. Strange to think it could end in the blink of an eye. Rolled up.

Listening to this music. Mysterious because it hints at other lives we didn't live, or long forgotten ones in a distant past; a life that escapes our memories but remains, nevertheless, like a discarded object in an open field...waiting to be picked up. It's under my skin: I am not me.

Each soul, each patchwork heart, is woven together by but a few threads. Some are blue, some are red. Now and then we see them in an other's eyes, in the soft morning light when the earth still forgets, and is full of promise; when the fading evening light makes the world appear to be full of shadows, less real than it is. Things sink back to their essence. Now. And then. Words break under the strain..like everything else. All is quiet now.

We live in wells. Tell it slant. I live in a well.