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