To sit and watch the distant landscape
dissolve into components that,
were they assembled once again,
would never quite make the same,
or would they?
To master
the purrty-purrty language of the cat,
to work this wonderful machine,
the female mind, into some sort of sewing,
or should we call it seaming,
the obvious, and the absurd.
The word is now.
It sounds so demanding,
devotional, yet so devoid of sense.
There is no 'now'. Every thread is bare,
as there are no threads,
but only the machine.
The coffee time is past.
We gather round an actor in a cast.
He says, 'Please! Make me real!
Make me feel
Love. And affection'.
Everyone applauds. But not me.
I sit and watch the last one
of the coffee cups fade into Nirvana.
Some boy puts them away, onto a tray.
A Buddhist, too.
24 марта 2016 г.