Andrés Paniagua Curiel (anselmo_b) wrote,
Andrés Paniagua Curiel

Now I see You in Concrete.

But no shadow is absence, lack or wanting.
Shadow is image, signal, sign of presence.
Ever since. Ever. Light travelled, light was
There first. There. Always. Presence. First presence.
Everything else, every thing, is obstruction
Everything is in the way. Sight is not light,
Sight is obstruction, verified.

Perfume of concrete. Liquid stone. Damp stone.
Concrete. Such stuff as dreams were made on, then.
Does concrete have a smell? Not damp, good dry.
The sunny concrete of a summer noon.
A speck of moss perhaps. In the seams. Clinging.
A speck of shadow clinging in the seams.
Edges obstruct light. Shadow clings. Moss shelter.
Noon sun. Does concrete smell on its own then?

Now. Now is then by the time now is. Then.
Now was already. When?
Now. Was. Then. Now I see you then. Eyes saw.
I, eyes turned inwards, eyes too cold then. Ice.
Shards. Conscience gnaws. Cold teeth. Too late to heed.
Late. Now is always too late.
It’s never too late but now.
Still, now I see you, then.
You. Was it you, who is you now, back then?
I am certain. I couldn’t be otherwise.
I wouldn’t want to. Not to be.
I see you, then.
I see you sitting on a field of concrete.
You sit on steps. You sat on steps. Gray steps.
There are steps all around and your pink garments.
Your eyes. Blue glitter. Clouds.
Blue glitter. Sunny concrete. Pink. Seams. Specks.
Such stuff as days were made on, then. Thin air.
Field rounded with a sleep.
Clouds, and the sky-blue blue sky, and a scent.
Not the perfume of your skin, glittering attar.
Does concrete have a fragrance of its own?

I see you, then. Sight is obstruction, light stopped.
Stuck in my skull. Embedded. Lodged. Forever.
Until. In bone. Embedded.
Memory is light. Light petrified, shards stuck.
In bone and coral tissue.
No. There is more. I see now. Then. See more.
Sound. Voice. I hear you then, now, breathe. Your sigh
The same, less painful then.
I hear. There’s chatter all around us. More.
Tact too. I feel your breast in my hand. Beat.
Your body crushing against mine. And taste.
Sweet salt of your kiss. Lips. Sweet salt.

What then is memory? Memory isn’t light.
Light travels.
Everything else is in the way.
Obstruction. Memory too.
Memory is time, obstructed by bliss.
Time stopped, gray steps, blue glitter, sweet salt, bliss.

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