Borrowed form 11
Then there was what to do.
So long alone with the lines.
Let go. Watch them wither.
Wilt. To a stop. Stare
at the ones ahead, the ones
resting by the river. With the sun
upon them, the air of wondering
lending them. Less than weight.
More than light. Wait where you are
while time slows to a stop, the water
pauses, for a portrait of itself.
Smiling. Say farewell to the page.
Wander on to the one to come.
The lines left behind. Let them.
Alone with themselves.
Scene 33
i
Where the snow lay white
without trace
but for the eye
and the sound of it
underfoot under feet
and the name and the face
at every step
of the way
ii
The strain we say
the strings drawn across
the pitch that sings
its perfection
as the wind in the wires
the endless bow’s length
its infinite friction
iii
As the snow melts the song’s
laid bare
lays bare
the way she went
iv
Once the music was written
it was impossible to say
where
Ray Malone is an Irish writer and artist living in Berlin, Germany, in recent years working on a series of projects exploring the lyric potential of minimal forms based on various musical and/or literary models. His work has appeared in numerous print and online journals in the US, UK and Ireland.