– george l stein
pen touches paper, a spark lites in the darkness, then there is a first point.
no breadth, no depth, no measure of will
still… it is something from which to build
and the dot persists
short square feet backed right up against the tracks
defines the squalid solitude that no one chooses,
not to come, to live and to die here. In the turn of time
it chooses them and the rest simply follows on
logic and purpose become a study in dysfunction
as soon as the cards are re-shuffled and re-dealt.
There is a turn and a change of position
a point becomes a line and a line becomes a curve that goes round and round again.
now the land is bare where scant refuge stood, bare but for the weeds,
a pale, cheap wheat, a pleasing illusion to the eye but barren of sustenance
everything makes sense and no sense in some context
the trick is to find the frame.
A seamstress thinks of love and drops her pin
and in turn the thin facade of wholeness is pricked
a lucky stroke, or a tragic ending. Spin and position, perspective.
It depends on where one stands.
the journey, the stumble, the light and the loss
all that had come and that was to be
ambitions and expectations dashed and naught
nights of delusion and days of future past
when she reassembles the pieces just so
accounts for and adjusts the lights and shadows
she smiles and seeks approval for her efforts
but the simplest of glances betrays her
no one knew where the line started or ended
thought that their journey was theirs to steer
but time passed in an instant, one single revolution around a single point
the pen lifts from the paper, for better, for worse. the story is cast