PARADOX
'The reader brings,
the writer sings.
Context is a factor
of a hundred things.'
They each have their little moments
at the side table where the dirge is
sung and oft repeated. One thousand
hands, bringing supplication to a small,
round, wooden table. I notice no man
stops for anything his quest. The small
votive light, as an incessant Buddha of
untanked desire, weems its flicker forward.
A highly polished marble presence remains -
'is Carrera marble ever used for floors?' - I wonder
to myself. The high loft-ceiling, arc'd, cantilevered,
whatever the terms this architecture uses, also
soars; like words of a prayer, like songs of praise.
Bird-high, lifted, wild, wide and witty. So many
things, falling together, that everything stays in place.
'The reader brings,
the writer sings.
Context is a factor
of a hundred things.'
They each have their little moments
at the side table where the dirge is
sung and oft repeated. One thousand
hands, bringing supplication to a small,
round, wooden table. I notice no man
stops for anything his quest. The small
votive light, as an incessant Buddha of
untanked desire, weems its flicker forward.
A highly polished marble presence remains -
'is Carrera marble ever used for floors?' - I wonder
to myself. The high loft-ceiling, arc'd, cantilevered,
whatever the terms this architecture uses, also
soars; like words of a prayer, like songs of praise.
Bird-high, lifted, wild, wide and witty. So many
things, falling together, that everything stays in place.
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