I come back to a thought and there you are playing clarinet. You do it with ease.
I see enigma, koan, my imagination, more than reality. You sit in a chair and holding parts together, asking for peace of mind. Your countenance is raw and you wrestle a deep spirit … you compose a vignette, discuss a few lines, retreat at a subtle reproach. You hide sensitivity and skies have turquoise lining. History means life and understanding for you; some parts are egregious, but you love cultures, facing a high gate. I’d ask you of prowess in an attempt to broach a topic, you see me, you roll your eyes, smile politely, and say, “Maybe another time.”
I was irritated with you. I was moved by you. I hated to be smitten with you. I now accept you—for a dear entity, a complex person, your rights and image.
You remain with appeal, maybe coquettish, maybe stern with a hidden nature. Silence is unmuted, remaining tacit, if not too outspoken. To chime with life, to take to mystic rites, many caves, many arts, aesthetic sunshine. You will grin and say little this is a part in you, and spectacle will remain gentle.
