For Aneta Piotrowska
For Aneta Piotrowska
by Glor29 Oct 2017
We move bags underfoot and overhead,
we move our focus to growing gardens
we follow traces.
we sleep and dream of secret doorways
in the walls by our feet. We are watched over.
We move our thoughts to them,
to them, to them.
Our need to know the corners
they took, the grass they trod,
the music they heard. We move towards them,
we try to move ourselves away from ourselves.
We travelled. Intending to, and unintended, too
and we moved. We listened, moved to
understanding, or in the attempt to,
moved our travels in triangles.
Deconsecrated, desecrated outsides
drained of colour, inside full blooming
half daubed language we moved close up to.
We moved when someone said
'You're in my seat'. We moved like that a lot.
We moved along streets that kept their names
and carried jars of dumplings, (us,
and the streets) and kept moving.
Edging sepia memories,
we retraced forests with our eyes, fingers
brushed off leaves
dislodged a pebble we did not mean to move.
We meant to learn; motives, dates
that the great-great-great must have moved
across this market and before the century turned,
moved eggs to a new home. Looking up into the face
of the last King of Poland we are moved, by the death
of his beloved. And all this happened before,
in fact (though poetry's no place
for facts) what was before is why we move.
West to East this time, and this before
moves through once invisible kingdoms, land that must have shimmered with transparence. Fed by red rivers
these trees must still have breathed, our bedfellow worms must still have wriggled, before.
When it was all unknown we moved
here and there, before placenames had
edges and outskirts made of stone.
Slicing through mud and air, soporific leave
to stay silent - lost inside it all - we move
our knowledge as tetris blocks. We expect
to be moved by discovery, language filling cracks
our tongues move in new configurations,
moved to emphasise an unexpected syllable.
We try to see our great-great-greats greeting each other, turning over hundreds of years
on our ticket, we move it from pocket to pocket.
We follow traces
triangulate our movements