They come to me,
while I am away,
on one of my walks,
or on a starry warm summer night,
as I lay tossing
about like a restless
compass needle.

They come tumbling down,
like unexpected baggage
from up a dusty loft or like
a happy colour from
a buttercup's wing.

Sometimes they are collected,
like dew drops,
on young lilies
and preserved like a rose
given by an old flame.

They come swimming sometimes,
out of the blue cuban sea,
and leap out to me
like arrows from a graceful bow.

They leave me wanting
to walk up green mountains,
and sing down upon the plains.
Or walk down wet streets
reflecting the tired night lamps.

They are, they are not.
They stand for, they stand against.
I hold them and throw them high
up in the sky,
where they burst open like fireworks,
upon the city in which your feelings live.

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