“There Is Little Here”
There is little here to think on, nothing left to do.
I’ve chosen rooms to rent, nothing owned. I have no roots to nurture
Through to darkest nights nor reservations booked for future days, nothing sure
To last beyond what only looks to be horizons; feet but join no queue;
No driving passions, nothing held in escrow while wandering in the wings
That cries for flight; no bonds, no everlasting melodies, no kiss
To seal an hour of centuries, nothing in the mix to further bliss
Beyond a single breath. There is no truck with imagination here, no ring
Of brass to share the crucible with other alloys. I simply know and master miles
Between the loaves and fishes of endless hills, or, closer to the truth, hold
Court to witness visions that I see within my cold
And cobalt midnights, amber mornings, the sepia afternoons that smile
And bid me solace in congratulations in as many confirmations
Noted in the margins of my silent walks through fields of affirmation.
…painting above by Ariel Gulluni