With Czech & Greek Regards

At the end of time, there is no time.

No time to say what we meant, no words left to say where you are, still are, after all these burned hours in our lives.

At the end of time, me & you, because in the beginning.

'Two parallels
always meet
when we draw them ourselves.'

A line-random, flung out from nowhere: a tree is a thousand years old. There are levels of space, so things return, and time marks many directions: absence, homelessness,..the homecoming of the heart. After a long time you return, to find, what you always knew, that you have crossed too many bridges, lost too many words and turns of phrases.

The gestures of your hand have nothing to do with your face.  

~

In the early morning, still only half-awake, you read some Merwin..or late at night, when the day is done and all are asleep, you let the words float back to you. Words and books, for all their thousand year strength and resilience are as fleeting as your breath on the dark glass...and then, only breath, the space of a poem, that no-one remembers or, if at all, then off by heart.

What shape a day takes is a mystery. Why, then, talk about a life? What condition is this-think of a Latin name, or Greek perhaps. Under the thousand year old tree the play of light and shadow, as old as time itself and we, too, partake of this dappled state of being; only the cool grey first narrow step of your house remains calm and collected in all this heat, untroubled and unchanged by the light, while glass, wind and wood bend, alter to another tune.

The moon is here tomorrow; the seed catches the light & is caught in it. The seed contains tomorrow and, therefore, all tomorrows. The world in a grain. Many small white butterflies in morning; a few tired wasps; in a flash morning is over. And in an hour nature gives way to a memory, a name. A woman with too much perfume on for this time of the day flits by you: lush black hair, strong (Czech) bones and high breasts. I dig my own grave. What seed is this that lives and dies, like Hardy's pariah, hereditary outcast, under the wrong, faithless southern sun?

''Those who won
shall be lost to memory.

In order that everything
can happen once again.'