All texts shut, open all windows,
I am a glass of liquid flame,
dreaming a time when breadless books -
spires imposed on thatched roofs,
cathedrals fashioned over an abyss -
give way to books of timeless bread.
The piano locked, its fingers muse
a music where no dance is, beyond
the choked gold of measured strings,
the voices of night returning
with its standard lights. Not mine,
this hand, this page of fading fire.
Drained my glass, smoke the oil.
A dark camel crosses the dry moon.
Strip bare the museum of desire,
burn its clutter of cobwebbed obsessions,
and between this you, this me, spin a bridge
across a space once chasm, then jungle, now
garden, not too neat thank you, dandelions
are not terrorists but gypsies needing only
an open doorway to approach and spin through
and leave behind a space for love itself to dance,
all about it glowing, sparking, blazing away.
EXCUSE ME, BUT WHY NOT?
You are a light this glass catches and spills:
light trembling in water, water trembling with light.
The world is changed to this glassí reflection
of itself that catches and spills a thousand lights.
Take this glass and do what you like with it:
it cannot be broken, it will always be
floating between us,
whoever we are.
Taken from the book
Thief With Leaf