to return to the old trope, the bridge, the stream drifting beneath it :
your eye for the faint reflection, the frail life writing itself, the mirror,
the half hidden of how many selves held together, leant there, lost,
or less than, in one thought or the other : threading through the slowness of
some passion, brought there, of a distant source, some inclination of the pulse
to repeat, as of the blood to flow, round and round, circling the world,
for touch, for the such of circumstance, attuned to the insistent urge of it :
the words for it, were they ever to be found, wandering from one wherever
to another, from one pause along the way, from one moment’s repose,
rest, from the relentless, the pressing on, as if there were a purpose, a point
of latitude, a location, co-ordinate of the heart’s affections, or the head’s
intentions : a dream of impeccable conception, the gathering persuasion
of a day, a time and date to come, of encounter,
an essential meeting, between the one and the other, the one thought,
the one beat and the beating other, the one bank, and the distant other :
to turn away, away from wandering, to test the stillness, listlessness of
things let be, to taste the dryness of dust for once, let silence in,
the blood thin to a whisper, and the lack of words lay all to waste,
as were every passion spent, or every bridge now broken down,
only to return in words to this : the one bridge left to memory

© Ries Bosch