Leave these ships with the big
white sails that hardly are wobbling.
Leave this cry of the gulls full of
alarming
longing – let the lungs swallow the wind
coming.
Leave the eyes, let them travel beyond
the horizons –
falling leaves.
And find that angle of the time – of
love
when “here and there doesn’t
matter”
and that grief which hollows out the air
becomes the jump,
becomes wing beat,
the water deep in the tank,
the entire while of moving unmovable.
Flags!

T.C. Elliot

original

http://vbox7.com/play:b2927115