gap

In the gaps of love

I fall and slide

My wings too heavy

They are a holy calling

An innocent I cannot shed

And I bend beneath their

Terrible feathers

As if I was born to walk

And not to fly and soar

I pray and am not godlike

I list and am less

Than before I flew

I understand not it

It beyond me is, it

Is the job questions

The omnipresent doubt

The wayward heart

That out of beats beats

And then I hear it not

But I believe it still beats

And then not

I am sitting in darkness

At tables without

And listening to music

That Is not mine

Loveless

Child of love

the red bag

the red bag sat on her lap

like an oversized heart

she held it tightly

and never let it go

zipping and unzipping it

at times like an aortic opening

she spoke very little

touching her mouth

in circular motions

as if searching for words

and the red bag

hands protecting

the red loomed

echoing more than silence

her eyes askance

flitting between extremes

denied any presence

except the bag

i sought her eyes

but she never gave them

all she said was

this happened

when he went away

when she left

the redbag went with her

time present

time present

 

it is a matter of time

that language is what it is

present in form and cut

to produce dialogue

it is always constrained

and within a page

becomes constraint

harnessed with syllable

and inflection to become

the sense and memory

the narrative of a inner dialogue

it is matter of debate whether

a word or a sense, a symbol

whether they are substance themselves

or the arcs of the substance

that ride, poised upon the aligning

alphabets to point us to this stance

substantive to this idea is the conclusion

that time present is always contained

in time present, and time present always contained

in time present's past, eliot said so, so time,

time past is another matter