Cicada

I am useless without something to present to you.

I pass my hours in the car, the tortoise in a flat, rectangular box.

One hour after another along the road, left to nothing but comapny, naked and open.

I can see what that stretch of the road looks like. And I can see the entrance to the motel near the end of the trip. The entrance, and the rooms which were ours but we could not enter.

I have to take a step forward right now. I want to say something else.

We have that evening in Cairns. Do you remember it? It is magic.

Pain and truth run me over. All of the objects in the field of vision dance and the air is light. I can see. You sit close to me and tell me about what happened, your heart on open and tired. You must think it is the right time but I do not see what is coming at all. We drink and the scene is teeming with excitement, with pleasure, with pain. You tell me what happened and I imagine what it must have been like. I touch your sorrow and learn. I see the little neighborhood where we slept. It is drawn up like a storybook setting.

You have something inside of you which sings and never stops and that night you sing it to me. I should be so fortunate.