Sunday evening
and apart from the sound of the mattress heave beneath my frame
and my tired knees swallow my legs
the next sound
was the silence of a Carver paperback on the shelf.
And in a minute
you’re reminded of canalways
in the second Dutch capital
and Li Po behind the rocks on Knobby’s,
and in a minute
you’ve learned how the
thawing of meat
says more about a thing than anything.
And on running a finger along the lacquered ledge,
wondering,
if like dead berries on a mountain top
the film of dust says anything about what came before,
about the soul of the stories in the room
or anything about silence.
Because
only three or four pages -
paragraphs -
in,
outside the American bookstore
you think now is on the Kalverstraat
close to the church where with your collar rolled
you did the kissing
in the middle of some half-brave dream,
you knew the silence of the city from three thousand feet.
Sunday evening
and apart from memory, nothing had changed.
mick8585
Evocative piece Andrew. Probably one of your best I think.
I can almost taste the silence.
KushalPo
A very very well crafted writing
PJ Ryan
beautiful writing
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