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Why Lost, Why Here?
The field of becoming through which the lovers pass is a town. Gray beaches picketed with driftwood. The idle on vacation are lost among the rollercoasters and sunsets. It seems like a joke, for love to be fixed somewhere. Love is a nomad whose silver glitters because its footsteps are ceaseless. Then slowly, the stasis of place begins to evolve: a microcosm is born. The new born world begins to resound with images of love. The trees have names now that the lovers have fallen asleep together beneath them. The road is the place where they saw the birds take off. The restaurant is where they ate that feverish summer. There they got their feet wet, here they screamed together. Every cottonwood tree bears their palmprints. They begin to love the city because it is a mirror. As the sky mirrors their faces, as the spinning orbs of the planets mirror their eyes. Intimacy surrounds them; they cannot escape its violet blanket. No longer can they ask "why lost, why here?". Now they say "How soft it is to be lost in the vacant arms of"