"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 was sitting
on the bookshelf. Cool ceramic.
Out there, and "up," night,
are 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."
hans ostrom 2017
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 was sitting
on the bookshelf. Cool ceramic.
Out there, and "up," night,
are 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."
hans ostrom 2017
