GLASS FEVER
That which stretches the moment can lead
to another ideal : crumbs at the table, where
you'd just been sitting. Your coffee cup, slightly
off the edge. A mention of smoke from someone's
last light. We'd already left by then.
-
Through the glass, slanted, the light from
outside's morning throws back the ghosts
we've been. 'I feel so insubstantial,' I
heard you say. And 'yes,' and 'correct,' and
'right you are' I wanted to reply. Over in that
instant was everything essential to living.
Our patterned lives, like shadows, were
somehow left there, to remain on the wall;
a forever space where something else had been.
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