In just the tiny hours that actors catch
and turn to definitions of the world,
in just the moments of leaves appearing
to merge in a block of cubic windows,
rise from your plate of compound sentences,
stretch as if in practice for a jump
over the void and into our poorly planned
simulacra of paradise. What it means
to go for a walk seems nothing less than
trust or the hope of different scenery,
from mammoths crunching the random tundra,
to sundresses hovering above the aching
sidewalk. Vast as the earth beyond such eyes,
it seems too little to not be real, and time
too thin to not pass for forever, for all
that means–words join the list of what fails me.
|
Rio:
A Journal of the Arts