Poetry / In Response to Your Babble
I know you are there
I understand you
with the cells of my
everchanging skin
I remember you.
Not with my brain,
but with my jutting elbows
the bone in my hips
and in my gut
as if my DNA stole
your being
and toils
to replicate the remembrance
in every cell
of my body.
I am hesitant
But I speak from my toes
At rest in the grass
There is joy
In this stuff we are made of.
And you,
you believe what
your skin tells you
while I,
I listen
for assurance
in the echoes
of neurons
and chemicals
What is this you
who believes
and this me
who listens
but a memory
of the future
already sepia
stained
with the past
our connections
eternal
their nature fixed
our perceptions
metaphors
for the whimsy
of photons.
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As I read this I saw pictures, not letters multiplying like cells that forge a new thought life in words. They were not grainy sepia pictures, but the over-gestations of colour photographs left too long in their darkroom basins. The results of such delightful perceptual misadventures always assume the hues of salt water toffee, reminding me of cape Cod boardwalks.
The way you write this is like flipping through a box of these snapshots, perhaps on a picnic blanket under a sugar maple tree. There is a serene eternity in the irrelevance of this scene to love and life everlasting, something truer than a simple image captured, in which the photographer remains a mystery.
Real art conveys the sight of the unseen, not the thing the unseen sees.
Word.
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