The hour is late in the morning, not early; and still, the vessel rocks in place, nattily sec-ured. A bobbing plinth is flexing to support our own suspension out of time. All our love presents itself and takes an easy place with us right here, voices, kept within, emerge to share each other's company and ours. This is not the monotone of the Armistice Ball in Scott, but a cool polyphony of treasures no one heard until just now.
I think the past exists here. beautifully put.
ReplyDeleteThis is very kind. I love Valéry Lorenzo's sufferance of these poachings almost as much as his work, because I'm pretty certain we don't see things the same way. But at least one feels better for seeing the picture, and I'm truly glad you enjoyed the posting.
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