The Heavy Cost of Light

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In time darkness is softened along the edges,

losing a grip on the rim of the moon

but still visible in the shaded pools of Nuuanu.

Mostly unseen, this transitioning

into morning surfaces

serene streams of penciled lines

drawing out the movement,

the illusion of time,

how all is subject to its division,

a revision of the bliss we knew as children.

Our passage, an indentation in someone’s memory

and nothing besides belief in something grander,

a glimmer in thickets of bamboo and banyan.

In the translation of a moment’s whim

the word gets out like a wind

through the gnarled branches of past instances.

What should have stayed within palace walls,

escapes like a confession

and in this expression

we diminish what is sacred,

wringing out any secrets with a reckless pretension

as we transition online and appeal for attention.

Photos shrink the moment,

while egos inflate with over exposure,

every posture crowding the foreground

obscures nature until it is rendered irrelevant.

Under compulsive scrutiny

we cannot escape the desecration of those walls.

It comes inadvertently from increased foot traffic

in the worn out light,

an oppressive weight as it falls into disrepair.

 

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Transitions

ImageYou arrived with the smell of the sea

in the fibres of yak skin.

Freeing winter from your scarf,

you’d splinter cords to start a fire

to warm wine and sit by her,

for long hours sleeping,

you would venture no further.

Always reluctant to organize your whereabouts

into any recognizable pattern,

your path bends and zig zags

like hot liquid wax moments

between movement for its own sake.

The mystery would swallow you

with an insatiable urge

and you’d follow her

through liminal spaces

poised

to watch dawn progress into day

receding into dusk

until darkness strays into the sea.

The sea that instructs

each moment,

a renewal

an assistance

without resistance

you collect the submerged images

of dream precipitation

that could never be measured

in the blank fish-like stares

that assume assimilation.

Solitary images reflected in liquid windows

blurry, empty as a drained pint

empty as one not quite

everything to their lover,

there will be another

in the bits and fragments

you piece together

apartment lights

glittering and temporal

until leading to inevitable

exile.

 

Out at sea,

the course you map

reveals only

that no two passages are alike

but transition and tread water

until currents condemned to wander

lead you through the wake of shipwrecked error.

Home would be never

more than a mirage,

an invention, a montage

of memories and voices

albatross to your myriad choices,

you hear them calling from afar,

from out of the fog and eastern forests

full of mist and crows

there arose

a familiar threshold

something concrete and not simply imagined

a place to unfold weary limbs

to transition from whim and vagrancy

to the warmth of family.