Down from Shakespeare Street,
the river, its exaggerations
ringed by that which shows no pulse.
Above, the cafe diners
bounce off asymmetrical realities,
as real as anything else.
Amid phenomenon and cheese,
amid wine and silhouette,
thru metropolitan loves,
ritual and romance,
we go a roving,
different kinds of solitude,
all wait to be discovered.
Around the people the colours
of the spectrum bind,
merge as one as source,
An old man feeds squirrels in the park,
obsolete equations, anomalies that spark,
once he was Jupiter, Mars,
a hundred thousand pulsars,
but now inside him, a sense
that goes against a sense of sense,
a nonchalant euphoria
gravitates through trees,
all other movements imperceptible. These are not the hours
for god the violinist.
These are not the hours for reading Tarot cards,
or the pleasures of the bards.
The dragonfly hovers, its hum of rotors
feign mechanized minds,
masquerades of absence.
Everyone hears it,
pretending not to,
as they speak to themselves,
as if to each other.
It is not that they sleep nor wake
but simply create for creation's sake,
synonyms of sand, liquidities of glass,
remnants of shadows pretending to pass.
From a tenement window a lone parakeet
echoes the sums of commanding conceit,
on Great Western Road, a boy with a face
says all is mistaken, all is misplaced,
a series of benign catastrophes,
collapsing eternal, into themselves. These are not the hours
for the clenching of fists.
These are not the hours to hold in the hand.
I, a sceptic of these unchanging energies,
insist all is sand,