One Day in April

An early morning in early April, sunbeams drop on the ground like ice blades. Light and shadow are so sharp as if they were cut out by knives. You can almost hear something is being broken in the air.

When I pass by the city in a car, reality stretches in front of me like a thin film. Sunlight shines on it and gives off an obscure glow. The film wobbles a little, like the wings of a buffer fly flapped a couple of times in the sun, and then she flies away. I could almost touch the thin film with my fingers--a little damp and sticky, like the enlarging surface of a soap bubble, with dim, changing colors.

Sunbeams run away backwards beside me. They gather together on tops of buildings and churches, testifying the morning glory and whispering to each other, like a flock of doves before taking off.

Time shoots millions of arrows down at me. I try to escape and run between the arrow heads and shafts. During my retreat I don’t know I have lost all the hours, minutes and seconds.

I shake hands with my enemy. I laugh and talk with the person I hate. I hide my real intentions from the person I love. People’s eyes are like windows in houses at twilight. They reflect the fading light from the dark rooms inside. Sunbeams march from one window to the next before they leave, finishing their daily, routine travel and parade. Everywhere their footsteps turn, lamps in the houses are lit up one by one. When dusk falls outside the window like a curtain, I hear quiet sighs coming from the dark, interior chambers.

I wrote:

Before the sun went down
I saw your shadow slipped away across the wall
The bare tree branches of wintertime shook a little
It’s the evidence of where you had been