An intimation of mortality
But far enough away.
Like the sound of a distant bomb
And the tremble of the walls.
A shiver. Of delight, relief,
Or is it apprehension?
But, we have washed our hands of fear
The morning sun dives into the pool
Skitters on the panes of the French window
Inside, the blue gold flame of gas
Sends my way
The slow smells of cardamom, clove and pepper
Through the kitchen arch.
The pan irradiates the room, invisibly.
A triangle of visions as I sit.
Indigo, spectral wisps of grass bleached.
Two floating figures in a kiss.
A mining map, a melancholy child.
Three worlds, my mind dips in and out
As another one unfolds in my lap.
Of erudite and contained passion.
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