I have lived between the silences that fall in the hollows of my words,
lived in the great and living breaths of the city’s motion.
I have lived in these miraculous afternoons,
in the turmoil of the storm.
When it rains, I walk umbrella-less and unhooded so the drops run across my face,
so the weather tells me of its songs and journeys.
In the snowstorm, I walked two miles, kicking at new drifts,
the flakes sticking gentle and cold to my cheeks,
the city full of freezing and of melting,
the glory of the winds and the warm comfort of the aftermath, collided.
I have been made a whole and heady human by the passage of such hours,
spent in the dusty drifts of turned pages and whispered laughter above them,
in the shape of sunlight and shadow through a cloud of street-smoke.
I am stitched of truths and remnants,
which turn like pocket watch pieces and run like stockings.
I am fond of time, for it tells us how to measure the impossibilities of existence,
the small measures of these symphonies,
the dancing grains of the inbetween places, where we settle.
I have lived, in fancy, in a small grey house on a large grey coast,
where loons call delirious in the morning and a lighthouse sweep is a distant promise,
and squalls hit violent and beautiful.
I have lived in a glass and copper city,
and among the farthest reaches of some star-laden black-cut cloth of night.
Perissology and Peradventure 