sarma

Somewhere between the after-image and the present,

between the humming of double-winged dragonflies

and the diesel-belching roar of the earth-mover,

between iridescent indigo suspended over clover

and the giant taxi-yellow paw gouging rust-colored dirt

from under the porch where we sit having breakfast,

there is a space

a fragile, mobile territory

hovering between the senses

where not your face, but the thought of you appears,

through which your far-seeing eyes, wide and dark and deep,

embrace the revolutions of a changeless sphere.

We see each other so rarely

that even now, as you hand me the cream,

your presence remains a symbol of a rendezvous

yet to happen,

a postcard from the place where we always meet again.

As we head for the road at the foot of the field,

I find myself walking toward the middle of my vision,

pulled forward by a vanishing point that cannot be reached.

Like taking steps on a treadmill, the right sensations are there,

but I can't close the distance between myself and what I see.

I never move, nobody does, rooted in the edge of the frame.

With the feeling of a projectionist trapped in the booth,

I turn

and find you waiting for me there, in the open field.