Paradox

They call it solitary - as if to roam with book-worlds is lonely or their citizens are not social - as if I am alone. Not a tree; but a sound, a rustling soul of "tree" And you can close your eyes too, close and then open, see properly. Where I live, the orange streetlights collide painterly with the navy of five p.m.; they wash like ink against each other - a world-painting. Words are like that, but not; but they are, like the memory beyond the edge; like lost keys, but also found ones. They are frying bacon, wet grass and dry earth - and they are better. Young birds, they need nursing; skip fourth and let them stagger off the edge - and speak them softly - like china, they are fragile, but also not fragile.