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The Ever Real World
The physicality of you
watching me rattle my keys
in your dream watching you,
in a fever, the feels bubble up
inside the mourning zombie
summons an evening ghost
which keys to be
singled out
to open
which cavity
slid into that
which is locked
magically
dissolving all
that for a time
walls stop
and the miraculous
touching confronting occurs
the meeting
of mind and body
honey in the ethereal
qwerty world
Candide Diderot. ‘24
“Romance, who loves to nod and sing,
With drowsy head and folded wing,
Among the green leaves as they shake
Far down within some shadowy lake,
To me a painted paroquet
Hath been—a most familiar bird—
Taught me my alphabet to say—
To lisp my very earliest word
While in the wild wood I did lie…
A child—with a most knowing eye.
Of late, eternal Condor years
So shake the very Heaven on high
With tumult as they thunder by,
I have no time for idle cares
Through gazing on the unquiet sky.
And when an hour with calmer wings
Its down upon my spirit flings—
That little time with lyre and rhyme
To while away—forbidden things!
My heart would feel to be a crime
Unless it trembled with the strings.”
Honey.
Copyright ©
Candide Diderot
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