There will only ever be you.
Believe it or not. It's the same for me.
Something I often wonder about:
How you feel clean skin,
Turn a look, open a smile
Like a clear, early beach morning,
Hear the soft wash on February sand
And skitter of pipers skirting waves;
Descried and called out to
At the far end of a small street,
Where you've been and are or will be.
The result of ink and paper
Or more like the concept of print,
Arrayed with meaning, cover closed,
Fingertipping the book's topmost edge;
One of us waits there inside.
And the author suffering from amnesia.
I can only know that I am conscious,
That I experience, not whether that
Experience may also be the staves of me
Unfolding; like a fan, pleats of being
Spreading and collapsing, pawing at
The invisible: these people of dreams
Reaching toward, like an old-styled romance,
Someone there poised on a high vista,
High above the shining, tilted tablet of ocean
A permutation. Like someone I know.
Kevin Cornwall © All rights reserved.