Stealing 1.5 minutes from Chronos to roughly sketch out surroundings. Academia has claimed the time reserved for Art, yet Art shall overcome. Cafe Bassam. January 2017
Let me try to explain the way
the poet sees.
To the poet the sparks of electricity
zapping along the trolley cables
are falling stars
A thread on the blue carpet
curls in the shape
of butterfly wings
The poet writes on the bus
and carves
tiny offerings to the Muse
out of dense, secular days
The poet sees a sky of pink
when she looks at the facade
under fluorescent street lights
(that’s when they started killing nuances)
The poet is always, always somewhen else
For example, when she closes her eyes she is in a city of spires and
horizonless turquoise
Here, wings tethered to a chronograph,
longing only for infinity,
and the only time that matters,
art
In her chest the poet keeps:
incense and ink
the space between words
certain nights
Her soul is already beyond the asphalt,
Through the pavement to become light
She understands exile now
and the words of those far
from the land of the two domes, from Beauty
As she walks through a city with no past a man tells her:
Let me guess. Size six.
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