(second version)
"The ways of life are infinite and mysterious."- Georgio Scerbanenco, Traitors to All, translated by Howard Curtis
In spite of my playing, the piano
produced a simple minuet by Bartok,
which made me think of walking
cautiously across a frozen pond.
An empty coffee cup sat there
on the bookshelf. Cool ceramic.
Out there, and "up": night.
And stars, which we think of
as a permanent installation,
not a chaotic map of explosions
or freckles on an infinite face.
I dream recurrently about new
stars, close and bright,
flowing past in a sky-parade
as I look up from a meadow
in mountains and watch,
thrilled and terrified. I almost
forget to breathe. Someone I can't see
says, "Words are stars. I've
told you that before. Many times."
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