A River, A Book, A Stone

a river, a book, a stone

 

where I am from

all but the stones and a few trees are young.

 

but where I have been,

time, human time, is deep.

you can dive into it,

plumb the depths until your line runs out

with the bottom still beyond reach

fathoms down, millennia.

 

it’s the dimension

unrecorded in building plans or city maps,

but without it: no building, no city.

 

it is visible with eyes closed and mind open.

events exist immutable, hidden by time

but revealed in marks scratched into walls,

voices from stone, vellum, parchment and old men,

telling of before and before,

spy holes through time.

 

I saw an infinity of layered Coliseums

reaching back and back

with the world changing and swarming about them

like a shifting sea split on the prow of a ship at speed.

P. Ferenczi