Magritte: The Kiss
To restore silence is the role of objects
Samuel Beckett
Nothing looks the same or walks the same these latter days,
this face looking only to where it’s going, the coffee high,
the arching neck, the palm tree cracking the concrete once called to me,
now clouds cover the surface of what’s moving slowly,
missing milkweed fluttering its orange wings seems to have
nowhere to go, to avoid nearing what isn’t there:
a face behind twisted cloth facing a lover, those wrapped-up
head-like things, muffled in their winding sheets
while behind them in the upper right corner a detail of molding.
Ordinary, luminous, wry.
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