Transit

Doves under the railway bridge, speaking of my grandmother and bombs. Sounds in the night, talking of teenager wishes. Someone else in my dreams, yelling until I wake up crying. Things are unreal, in transit.

Mundane, to look at you, your unbreaking solid there, established confidence, your scent. Grounding the distance, my romantic irony.

Homecoming

The yellow stones in lantern light distract my train of sight. Another voice, another room, my mother's face, my father's scent, the air is sick at night. I walk the halls, a clouded step, my baggage hesitant. Bear with me please, show me your voice and never reprimand.
My lady sees imprisonment, where I see only light.
My lord, he cannot feel but loss, yet we found it right.

Good night.

Plans and recipes

I plan for educated domesticity, post pumpkin jam and modern quince compote right next to the newest electronic toy. Or is it? Lovely tools, all manufactured with precise efficiency - in China. White white porcelain inlaid with blueish prints, invest in grandmothers and language. Home-grown rhubarb harvested long after the deadline (as marked by saints), spiced by Calvados and feminism, underlined vanilla. Body heat, redux.

Afresh

Don't be precious. (Precious means expensive, yes?)
Show don't tell. (But I see so may things I want to tell you about.)
Relax in passion, breathe. (Are we doing yoga, now?)

I need to clarify a thousandfold, I need to overanalyze in peace, require space for beauty. How many secrets make a pair? Beads on a string.