Poetry

Must we go beyond
the black holes of burned books?
The flight from the edge of circles
leaves the dust behind.
Inside our wings are embedded
the years. In the sky
we must part. The parallax is here.
I will pursue the centuries
circling over the memories.

A single page flutters,
rest of the book is silent
not skillful technicality,
only a smuggled simplicity.
I fall into the stillness
of a ceaseless motion,
fall into yesterday.
The feeling to put out
the bright candle is very strong.
A burning solitude.

Face to face with motionless dream
the wide space between letters unfold a meaning.
The absence of central thought
was the essence.
Refusing to churn the evidence,
we forgot that our territories could,
not hold the bliss of another self,
of another relay.