I look best when naked,
that nudity of my spirit’s shattered walls,
absolution in a free word,
idle manifestation by a gesture,
a whole empty staring silence.
I speak best when lost for words,
that purity, that adiabatic pursuit;
some pale dream in a drawer,
sleeping with tidy halls and no remorse.
For whom do we make our masterstroke?
That perfect stream to one, and none to all,
yet we’re unified by the reflections of
impossible solitude, infinite yearning.
We find solace among each other,
even knowing we will all die.
Stars died for us, so long ago,
but what did they live for though?
A speedy photon from the boundaries of the Universe may come.
The steely spectrometer, a cool calculation,
and cut chromatic chaos into calculable data;
but the iris of the orb watches the watcher,
so we categorize, cut, reduce and measure.
But how does it measure us?
I do not want the secrets of the photon,
It’s measured best by skin,
by the somber green reflections of trees,
by twilight and by dawn again.