in the end...

in the end it is only colours that matter. they remind me of you at sunset, when light turns upon itself and autumn comes to die upon your skin, lingers for a while in your eyes then suddenly sinks into you to make your bones glow from within, for just a while longer.


in the end it is only the bird's flight that matters. it reminds me of nothing but itself. this and...


the promise of the sky at dawn?


no, just its emptiness. this and the emptiness of the sky.

..

the patinoire in front of the Hôtel de Ville

..

the quiet, slow and steady distortion of memory

The broken mirror will not again reflect;
Fallen flowers will hardly rise up to the branch.

from Zenrinkushu (1429-1504)

..

sunset under the floating bridge (in homage to my adored Monet)

crossing this blue bridge of dreams,
my heart still untamed,
my hair still the bloodied reeds
which used to chain down time.
stopping. such stillness, suddenly
in this body heavy with countless autumns.
leaping. rings in the water neither reveal
nor hide anything. for a while,
until the world gets busy again,
as it never fails to do.
in this body of mine as well, though
i ask: whose body, now?

drowning within the setting sun.

..