For the Half Past, the Brushed Past


Let me try again
to tell you about
the light that was shining
until it wasn’t.
Certainties are like summers,
epithets for enduring
that don’t really endure;
they all empty into
a horizon that belongs to
another world,
another eloquence.
But I lose myself again.
I believed and fought
and my faith was rewarded.
Look at all the colors I’ve won.
But that horizon hasn’t moved
an inch; the colors, finally
ask to be exchanged.
The leaves that were verdant
and the trespasses that were green
until they weren’t.
I lose myself. Let me try again
to give a name to that season
where everything is suggestion
and cannot be touched.
Between regretting and hoping,
but not the other way around.
(That one we call love,
the finite kind, and there
are enough songs to sing,
enough altars for sacrifices.)
Between you and the part of me
that is buried in chapters.
Is to be literate the same as
to bear the involuntary reflex
to read everything in sight?
Can you turn it off when
you see the sign on the door,
when you hold it open and
let me through?
Here, the bridge of silence
with the words that have been
living underneath,
gambling with the cold.
There hasn’t been
a particularly harsh winter.
But even the relative comfort
of this distance still
doesn’t have a name.

“Untitled / Yokohama, Japan, 2015” by photographer Ryuichi Noguchi


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