Monday, November 21, 2016

A Stroll through Central Park in Autumn

Many leaves have discarded their leaves
I walk ahead without noting how the wind shakes the trees
from my body, this is the condition of loss
that you do not notice what happens
that you are like others unaware

of three sax players tuning
with air, a meaning for your deepest fears
strangers in the day, lovers in the night
this is the condition of bedazzlement

such small space, you are,a leaf under tree
move forward, sway backwards

on the mall, statues,
a figure of this and that to a game of guessing
who spoke that word, but most importantly who wrote it
ink remains etched, on paper, on stone, on brick and bone

scenes after scenes,
keep the photographers for later
no one knows when there will be a time for use
a time for discarding the memory

of those who should have strolled with you
instead of inhaling cigarettes, drag after drag in the nighttime

before Bethesda,
the pigeons remind the angels
of the importance of you can turn
twist and turn then mange to return to the exact spot for rest

these are small wings and little freedoms
the discoloration of death in beauty
over Bow Bridge, no trolls but sunshine
three beats of these feet to the foot of the bridge

sometimes this tapping makes you stop and wonder
where did music originate from, love?

once you stop imagining you will see, I hear his voice
once you start imaging you will be, I hear mine
as I walk under the trees that shake their leaves
onto my hair.

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