Plaything or Playnothing?

Beach_Tung Ping Chau_2016

The burnished shell they sell
by the sea — Beginning
that makes no bones
of itself — what on Earth
can it mean to the likes of me? Breather;
heartbeater; pulser; digester
of questions that blister
and cold-stone truths; shower;
teller; clumsy incenser of all things
half-way sweet or sincere; PRESENTer;
PASTer; fabulous FUTUREr;
fly on the wall in this singular
plural world: I weigh your rest
on the flat of my hand. You weigh me back
with the glint of its gloss;
with the hush of its cone;
with the spiral-finesse of its empty — beautifuller — form.

Now what will I make with the rest of my life of my own anxious skeleton?




To be like her: to enjoy
the fair rest of the fairest,
that repose, where doubt
overturned by beauty
completely loses its voice, as if —
like a stone — it never had a voice;
no hemidemisemiquaver of negative noise;
no tremor even from remote self-shadow;
just perfectly pleasurable pause.