the ghost in my throat coughs out
an old sunday
all mixed up
walking
the subway
between museums
wading
through Brick Lane
on market day an urban river
cascading trinkets sandalwood incense
headless statues, my head to their shins,
shins that come alive
at night
shaking all the stillness out
moroccan spices blend with expensive perfume
and the boho chic
of the moneyed
antique typewriters chandeliers
beer in plastic cups
the sound of it
splashing
on the cobblestone
as the dreadlocked man
draws a beautiful woman
into his arms
reeled in by a fishing line of light
I walk the longhall filled with stained glass
colours dancing
on the polished floor
old men with beards stuck in windows
people nod sagely
at histories
I dont understand
the room, filled with squares
squares on squares
and in them paint
faces, some I'm drawn to
I wish I knew them
tapestries
looming
in a cool room
dark, and just me
them
and me
a battle fought across the walls
an arrow to the chest
how many hands?
how many needles?
1 comment:
I wandered through all those images, a quiet observer. Then, at the end, that lovely arrow. Push play. Close my eyes. And wander over again.
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