Crumbs, for example, just after. And kaleidoscopes of specks
stuck on the skin, or floating away, looming, thinning or bloating.
Crusts and rust, dust, sand and caliginous clouds in the air,
or filaments like feathers, like a debris of stares.
On the ground a scattering of the pips of things,
forgotten fragments following here
their own harmony of the spheres.
Following or forgetting us. Or staring.
With the laziness and absent-mindedness of a king,
with all the impassive persistence of the nonchalance of being.
On my dish I see crumbs and pips and, for a moment,
I don’t remember where they come from, they look like
props after some antics in a pantomime,
then I remember that I have just finished
munching my grapes and biscuits and drinking
my precious goblets of Chardonnay, I have been
spitting the pips straight onto the dish, pellets on target,
my reign the dish, which is always right here
this great gatherer of spheres, and friend,
because what welcomes any trash at the end,
preventing you from drowning in its trends,
is always a friend.
Anyway, most of the time life leaves us
a quietly quite scattered mess,
remains we have to deal with, reminding us
of the manifold remains we shall ourselves be.
After the end a body to dispose of and what it leaves:
a tossing loss, its skies and seas,
its not being alive any more
that we can’t accept but we must,
like circles on still water
after a stone is thrown,
then the circles become larger
and slowly blur.
Or stay, like the fearful symmetry
of a heart’s vacancy,
or like a hole in the sea of your eye,
ineluctably present in the retina
and you can’t erase the transpiring light.
Like the train of this monologue running
to your ashes, which in your mind’s eye
must be bright and rise like a sky in the sky.
But what a fuss before we are back
in the blue, our native hue,
what we really are.