Screech of sound, it’s music, they say,
turn around and cash, a cart in the way
a steely face, and eyes avert
criminal record, accused, inert,
so sail etheric to the fisherman’s queue
where boats are barren, no ocean air,
just a row about turns, and customer care,
coupons, status and an immortal stew.
Softly, my love, be soft in empty spaces,
be soft, love, be here and now
softly through this body, in traces
of being here, and being allowed
to be here, softly,
leaving no footsteps where we go.
Was this article helpful?
YesNo
