On the shore
She sits in the cafe chair; her dress all colors of the sea
when a column of light from a car racing by catches her
at the speed of slanted letters gliding down the rim of a mirror
at that moment my head lifts from the clock hands of a plate
nodding like a buttercup:
gray: do not hope
leaf green: miracles accepted
azure sky: look at me
The clock glass stands open,
a bird has flown off with hours in its beak.
What am I doing here,
and why did you choose this very moment for our meeting,
and where is my face,
my face - where? And what is the past
(work, the waiter nods and sweeps the coins into his pocket)
Babel of molten clock faces?
And a miracle occurs: she sends me, in flight, the pupils of her eyes
which she carved out of lapis lazuli with her own hands.
For the bird is not in the camera but in her gaze,
and what is time, I see her disappear in someone
who is more beautiful, oh so much more beautiful,
and she is no more, there is no longer a chair;
she is happy without her body
and prepares to return to her original state:
small starfish quiver on her eyelids
before they splash back into the oyster stew
in the cafe chair she will once more turn into oxygen and hydrogen.