All Odes in Honor, All Prayers To Floyne... / by D.M. Jerman

I spent the night in that city, creating light before moving on. In an afternoon, in a year between wars, I arrived. Even in summer on a train the world grows dim. And the rain puts me to a sleep like children. A child’s sleep – after play and refreshed by dream.  They know far away the sea is singing its milky lullabies for transforming the cool moan into froth. Dissolving the pains in the bones from growing up which spread out into the blood. Making the marks it leaves harder to remove, but who wants to banish a stain that saves a life? These stains, in the brainshapes of the lush and rolling hills of my constant imagination, numbering in only the few thousands on reality’s plain. All are art. And I long to be upon them.

I spent the night in that city, creating light before moving on.

In an afternoon, in a year between wars, I arrived.

Even in summer on a train the world grows dim. And the rain puts me to a sleep like children. A child’s sleep – after play and refreshed by dream. 

They know far away the sea is singing its milky lullabies for transforming the cool moan into froth. Dissolving the pains in the bones from growing up which spread out into the blood. Making the marks it leaves harder to remove, but who wants to banish a stain that saves a life? These stains, in the brainshapes of the lush and rolling hills of my constant imagination, numbering in only the few thousands on reality’s plain.

All are art. And I long to be upon them.

Rain in the morning, still old men ride their bicycles in the same direction up the winding narrow cobblestone. Perched on the cool thick sill, my lips find the white concentrated air of cigarette smoke and pull each drag lungward before the following fullness of exhale manifests. I have struck upon a holiday. The prayers pull the day down quiet and slow, melting its vanilla sun over a natural blanket.  The dimmer the haze, the paler shadows. The wash basin in the corner like a sundial. Creamy path of light touching the edges, a lover lain over.

Rain in the morning, still old men ride their bicycles in the same direction up the winding narrow cobblestone. Perched on the cool thick sill, my lips find the white concentrated air of cigarette smoke and pull each drag lungward before the following fullness of exhale manifests.

I have struck upon a holiday.

The prayers pull the day down quiet and slow, melting its vanilla sun over a natural blanket. 

The dimmer the haze, the paler shadows.

The wash basin in the corner like a sundial. Creamy path of light touching the edges, a lover lain over.

I don’t fall in love until I sleep. Waking again to find, purified, the color. The streamlined air has a song on it. The stringed instrument of a woman’s voice. I cannot find the source to view from my window. The room, the paint, the walls, the texture and hue of ash. Of soft burnt freshness.

I don’t fall in love until I sleep. Waking again to find, purified, the color.

The streamlined air has a song on it. The stringed instrument of a woman’s voice. I cannot find the source to view from my window. The room, the paint, the walls, the texture and hue of ash. Of soft burnt freshness.

But the echo carries effortlessness and charge. On a sky whose tone is about some season that knows no stars. Long past. Long forgotten. Lost. Hidden and preserved under blazing diamond snow of mountain crags. Beauty beyond all observation. And as well it is for the sake of those mountains and stars that I light all the candles. Half melted, they crack in the sconces as each accept the fire.

But the echo carries effortlessness and charge. On a sky whose tone is about some season that knows no stars. Long past. Long forgotten. Lost. Hidden and preserved under blazing diamond snow of mountain crags. Beauty beyond all observation. And as well it is for the sake of those mountains and stars that I light all the candles. Half melted, they crack in the sconces as each accept the fire.

A match awoke on the two I planted firm in the rinsing bowl. The burn sits even upon tall wax pillars occupying space in the thick green bottles that rival my age doubled. I have left half of that batch, the final bit of my day’s rations, on that same sill. New now yet familiar to my sitting and reflection. Much in the delighted attraction of two dirty dueling sparrows. Attracted to the breezeless flickers.  Gentle vagabonds, they are like me in this. But this is their home, and I am bound for other countries with no more candles to my name.

A match awoke on the two I planted firm in the rinsing bowl. The burn sits even upon tall wax pillars occupying space in the thick green bottles that rival my age doubled. I have left half of that batch, the final bit of my day’s rations, on that same sill. New now yet familiar to my sitting and reflection. Much in the delighted attraction of two dirty dueling sparrows. Attracted to the breezeless flickers. 

Gentle vagabonds, they are like me in this.

But this is their home, and I am bound for other countries with no more candles to my name.