The familiar vacant into the vacant,
into pearly light,
sky dots and drops
still and blind.
You’ll never know how much
appeased in blindness,
accomplished in stillness,
they never tell you
and your gaze is accustomed
to let questions hang,
to let answers feel useless.
You gaze into the pearly haze,
at the blurred line that divides
horizon from sky.
A boat in the distance
moves ripples blown along
like piano keys,
like the fugue of a breath on a sheet.
On the tops of some poles by the banks
there are spheres, don’t ask me
about their purpose, don’t ask me
while you are seeing me
in my own pearly, blank sea,
while I am setting free
lagoon lines that gently cry and sleep
in the pool of my own reverie
where I just would like
to forget and wade and glide.
Even if it’s not forgetfulness my plea,
it’s the lagoon’s face that spreads and stays,
that points at a fading although it never leaves,
in the pool of a gaze that seems to erase
any distinction between being and not being
while it rests in the unknowing.
So, on the tops of the poles there are spheres
and on a sphere there’s often a cormorant,
head, beak, tilted slightly on high,
breathing the pearly, blind light of the sky,
piercing the blur of dots and drops
and the blurring in the blur of the horizon line.
The water mirrors a smoothness
centred on its own featurelessness
and the cormorant’s eyes are still
although, if you come close, you can distil
a shiver in them, the sharp
of a dream.