Monday, April 30, 2012

Bianco

forty seven.

Blind man found me singing out of tune to the nightingales.

I remember this standing in a long white room, in
A gallery downtown.

Such a pretty face he doesn't know he's got.
Distracted me. All flourescent lit and misconstrued.
His nose is supposed to be a little further left.
His lips don't feel used.
Such a pretty face full up with breath
Smoky and leaking out his mouth
And the cheekbone edge, sharp,
Silhouetted in white and
About to disappear.

I've never seen anything so fragile
As the line of light running down that
Cheekbone edge.

Was anything so sad
As his eyes searching this abstract expressionist
Thing, out of tune?
I remember singing out of tune.

Blind man stroke my hand, he love me just the same.

He pick these jigsaw pieces up off the floor
To ask me what they mean
Ask me what the colors look like in this room,
That echoes, that breathes.
This room could be staring out the window with an absent mind.

He like the nightingales for singing
I think they sound more like cries.

Ask me what the colors in this room taste like.
Ask me what the puzzle pieces mean.
Curving round his fingers, and filling up his fingers
He feel them fit together, don't see the point.
I ask him what it looks like when he dream.

Kind man found me singing out of tune, to the nightingales
To the nightingales.
To the sirens, busses steaming up the streets
On a stoop downtown.
They should have sounded more like cries.

1 comment:

  1. i can really imagine this being a short film :) i like it.

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