The
conditions
There were two yellow
houses that obscured the view.
Behind though glimpses
of a road, green hillside,
distance, stillness so
far that the air stood quivering.
And suddenly there
were some persons there, in red jerseys.
It passed so quickly
that they were forgotten,
returned though as a
fragment from a contest
with end and start
both hidden just as hopelessly from view.
Cyclists in an unclear
section of the race, devoid of context,
so that the first
could be the last or vice versa.
Only existing as long
as not concealed from view.
Then there was a train
that passed, with all its windows open
throughout the summer:
a stronger memory, stronger time.
What an open
landscape, roads, waving hands!
And when I looked up
from my book the windows were all dark,
with curtains
fluttering inwards from a voiceless gust of wind.
I looked and I looked.
It could have lasted an eternity.
And understood that of
such stuff all days are made.
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