to say?" I mutter;
existence
is incurrence
of impression (viz:
of debt).
*
A bit
far-fetched, but it
feels good
to be called
as material witness
to the voiceless obsessed;
to next spring
and last winter
colliding with each other
and hopscotching birds
that seem to disappear
around the corner
of the Earth;
to the hide
and seek
of rivulets
which traipse
through mud
like hieroglyphs.
There is always something
new to read, however
crude or tenuous.
No wonder
this attention can
never be spent;
this duty to desire
can never be absented;
this ache to ask
questions can never
be addressed.
