|
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 lost...here...how soft it is to be lost in
the vacant arms of space...here."
|