it must be admitted that the living room is smaller than the
mountaintop. the view is of a tree or something so close. snow loses
eagerness at this warm level and season, so nothing shrouds that taste
of beginning, even when it ends. the room feels lost in murmurs, people
sound their grief. grief seems so farfetched. it vacates unexpectedly,
then isolates, then joins, then provides other images in the gloaming. a
tide of green sea glides into the memory of standing somewhere. a warm
protection under a vast beech tree secures a finality, when finality
arrives. too much information, except then a love occurs that can't find
a single word, out of all the collected sizes in array. but slip back to
the mountaintop, as decorative as poetry, that peculiarly near
mountaintop with sopping clouds assuming instinct in stunningly low
altitude beneath the feet that climbed high. the big nowhere confronts
the turgid gulf. not a simple task can remain. the expedition now feels
a deference towards getting down to the valley. the valley could prop
one up, so far away yet once a home of sorts. now back to the living
room, where voices clutch but isn't that a sentence? sentences realize
moments in lists needed to be read. trouble crosses the room, but it
drops tears worth love. and love stands worth astounding. love? can that
be a word in all its vitality, or just a fantastic slogan, or even a
seagull in some mysterious flight? read the lines that stretch between
us, if this passing acquaintance remains undaunted. more than ever love
strays into the abode that language allows. struggle on, struggle on...
he didn't want to leave.
