“And in short, I was afraid.” T.S. Eliot reveals it all here. We can go home now.
Memory elides into the eyes there
(let it die) in the sloth of dreams, it is
a protest against the ice shadow
of what the fuck were we thinking under
the frail permanence of memory, this
stir dislocated into cracked lilacs red
born as species, the earth moves the rock.
We drink red tea in the winter and summer
by the pale, ocean shore with rain
feeding on the sunlight with coffee beans,
and spoke in broken languages to each other
originating from your father in different countries of Europe,
he speaks almost a dozen languages.
There the death of the red, there the death of the wind,
And here is a, nonetheless, word spoken,
By the life it feels and here is life.