Places I - the square between purple and grey

I used to sit as if I were walking
in the purple quietness of a square;
an unheard-of square, of which, however
I wrote as if I were singing it
while crying, to the passers-by -
those deaf accomplices of my sitting
and purple hums – a million times.

There was no palpable light there
and the shadows would hide from themselves
in that pliable perseverance of confusable
hues and modulations that could be
the grey wings of certain pigeons
as much as the tint of the leaves
of certain trees, between purple and grey
all cooing one and the same trickled course
over the flagstones, of one and the same
past rain.

I used to sit not at the centre
but at an angle of my grey lines
which I would write and write again
so that no one would hear them
on a purple paper napkin
that would, as quickly, wipe them
from my lips to their last, purple droplet
so that no one would see them
and hence would neither infer grapes
nor the elliptic lines of other wings
other leaves, or other juices…

This was, probably, the most absurd
of all those places of a remoteness
to which I would return
when I wanted to be close:

The purple quietness of a square,
a damned square, that I would,
however, crumple in the same purple
paper napkin which I would then toss
to the ground of those same flagstones
coated in the same grey pigeons and the same trees
between grey and purple, and making it confusable –
and me, in my then trickled course – with any square
across which everyone would walk
in the deaf complicity of my blessed hums
devoid of light or even shadows;
where I would sit and cry, a million times,
as if I were laughing at the past rain.

© 2006 Alexandra* ~ OneLight*®