a moving target

 

between sharp reflections on the ceiling, from car-trains, flashing into incomplete night, ideas melt and ebb, waiting for dilemma and nirvana to meet, meanwhile

there is the changing of the drapes, the trash and the heat. the bargain of a day exchanged for a minute on the street, take it as you will

there is also, the marketplace, with the hungry hourglass, built with pieces of my soul, and many more, built to last, they say, but human with a hole

and then the carnival of magic shows, karpooram fumes everywhere, sweet and obscuring and faintly divine,

the doors, slamming up and down an endless corridor, the chaos of unromantic art, that forever comes and goes

and of course, no mistaking, narcissus and the translucent snake, trailing ashes in his glittering wake

renaissance is no longer the bat-signal in the sky, I drag it thread by snapping thread from little particles of moving light outside, wash it clean of a million clinging illusions, before I can make it mine

and yet, the destination, hasn't changed, it remains worthwhile