David Trame


Where walls and stones assist you
envelop the rustling of your voice,
take the wood-panelled fortress
of the reading room, walls that cradle
the joy of unending gossiping,
a still point flowing in time;
the row of slate houses outside,
the streets where cars, bikes, all gears imaginable
can get disassembled or crashed
as in a child’s play on a merging horizon;
where you don’t feel guilty in being idle,
like a drowsy emperor at dinner
lying in his gold, leaning on one elbow,
marbled-in, pregnant with
a bee-hive of laughs and cries,
merged in the sea-roar, crossed further on
by shivers of light, currents like
those rippling on your dog’s fur
caught in his dream-tides.

David Trame © 2007