WHAT CAN BE MY PARDON?
When the noonday sun comes calling
I stand back, three steps from the edge.
What can be my pardon for having no
forgiveness? I serve lunch. I want you
all to come. I've not been to my piano
studio garage for three whole days,
unable to make the walk : no air to
breath, and an unsettled chest.
-
Meaning? No music, no tunes. No
readings, no anything. I have now
absconded with my own presence?
-
How weird can that be? I go forth, and
back, and forth again, though I cannot
breath? For the life of me, this sounds
like death instead. What can be my
pardon for this turning away?
-
You see? This is from a very serious man.
A man in trouble with his self. A man
who can no longer see : all trifles and
brickbats waiting to be. Writing is a notion
too far gone. I am long lost now in those
traces of distant stars, the light from
which, they say, has taken thousands
of years to reach us.
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