Today I pass the time reading,
heavy feet, heavier lids; the book feels
like an afternoon alone, when the bougainvillea
is fading, big Indian trees with serrated leaves, bend
and flatten into pages and I forget for a moment,
I am reading. What of white pages, of language
flattened into ink? The east wind is trembling
in the green twigs; Today, everything
is passing the time leafing through the inside
of some book, someone is reading someone
else’s mouth move in the light, speaking
to a glass of water, cold sweat and slight colors
dripping down its neck, and I lift my hand to
the page but instead wipe away the water
from my eyes.
renga with gian. actually yesterday’s poem.