How can we talk of meaning
When we’re tired and dumb,
our wings weakening in flight
beyond horizons
to empty spaces where
Existence bites back?
Observing trains in and out
as doors snap shut
and travellers are missing
or never saw the station
and we are alone
with suitcase filled with stuff
we will never need or wear.
Yes, it is great to fly
and sample stillness.
The bliss, it is a kiss of life,
and emptier still
there is a holiness here,
as we stand talking riddles
to parts of ourselves long drugged
by longing not to belong
-just alive enough to feel
that something is very wrong.
Does it matter, this matter?
The asking stumbles on the curb.
Can we do more to help
this splendid disaster called Life?
“Just be here,” the night replied.
“Be here and let it in.
That is enough for ever.
You can sleep now.”
But I am here, I whispered,
my voice like a thin draft
from a passing car
I am here.
A snowflake dissolving
unwitnessed on asphalt
and a mind gone silently white.
