Time would never allow it,

I suspect,

Underneath this influence,

So save the best to the last,

Those ordinary voices

Walking north,

An experimental cure

For an acute sense

Of frozen absences.


They organized nothing,

Which reminds me

Actors began removing

Their pointless masks

From their ugly faces.

A pause,

And shadows appear now,

Black and white,

Ancient times

Which belong now,

To this screen

Filled with light again;

Eyes lingering a dry moment

On ours;

A compliment,

So motionless,

That she is watching me now,

And I look down.

I am the master of

The art of not condescending,

Expert bluntness

For dead periods

In an awkward

Prisoner-of-war camp.

No matter what,

My words are just meaningless,

A revised version

When they disappear

Inside the isolated trenches

Of these imperceptible holes

Of their true selves.

Not yet the other side

Of our infinite discontent,

Therefore, you glisten

As I stare, deeply amazed,

At the intense brightness

Of  the pendulum

That imposes

The atonement of your distance.

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