The images try to drift through,
but they are so fugitive, so vague.
This happening has begun and will last
a mysterious time. Clocks are ticking
with an echo...something else is there.
And time has become a bleeding vein
of many fluid impressions, yet so shy –
blood prefers to hide from open vision.
And speaking of time, Mother Darling...
maybe the present is an impasto canvas.
I'll scrape through the layers to find you
still in our first house...now, as it were.
On this fresh hurting layer,
let me inscribe a little poem:
I think of you dreaming bluebirds
in a morning of soft flower smells.
I think of you without any words
while ringing slow immaterial bells.