I keep Them In Here

Slip through and under, slip over and beyond	The way the light Fell across the room That day	Memory settled Like motes of dust	Under the floorboards, Fallen through the corners of the house.
Where do I keep them? I keep them in here.	Hiding harmless assumptions And misunderstandings	That slip beyond The tip of the tongue	It sparkled The last time I saw it
Is it any better? Is it any worse?	It is not What I expected.

These are the pages of a small hand-made book of juxtaposed images and text, printed onto fine paper that allows traces from each side to cast a shadow onto its reverse.

Symptoms of the World

Early Spring blossom, white and delicate, like the things made out of paper, that littered my childhood	The outstretched fingertips, the tip of the tongue, whisper	Summer winds blowing, strongly across ripe wheat, rippling darker currents	Time is spent, slipping past the path, following scents of promise
	I am not sure, that I , completely remember	The gentle movement of leaves, the echo of empty halls	And there are some things, that we just, don't talk about
rain and time, reflect back to us, only those things, we choose to recall	Forgetting the rest