I am afraid of things being written down
Confined to the page so permanent
There is an impermanence to song
It is fleeting and of the moment
Words grow wings
Flying and out of the mouths of singers and crowds
But never caught fully
Never pinned down
Celebrated for their imperfections
Because they are a disappearing creation
They live entirely in the moment
A vibration, an exchange of enеrgy
And that way things can be misheard...
Reintеrpreted, you don't have to be seen
You can be so loud so visible and yet
Totally hidden
By a flock of notes fluttering, already dying,
Disguising the somewhat ordinary if anxious writer
With their shimmering glory and colour

My grandfather said I am
Like the monarch butterfly
That got lost
I flew from North America
In the eye of my mother...
Drawn to the churches, frescos
And old books of Europe
The new world too new
Back to grey stone and skies
Ancient scrolls, death and dust
Old death, not this fresh death
There in your hand
Glowing and
Relentless