by Stephen Mead
in off-white skies,
the copper rust of this pavilion,
and of that church-----
To feel you now is to taste that chill
in the wheeling of birds
and the bells of clarity.
These belong to Paris or to London,
to any historical town of statuary certain
in the classical squares
of the formal floral
and of a pedestrian hush
traffic takes up
the whispering syncopation of…
Quite like Nightingales
we could meet here
as though over a rolling wall in China.
Surely the call of your name
is the scroll of a gull over reflecting seas.
Waves of water, pulse by pulse,
take such faces into my heart,
but I know them as I know
the smallness of the world is universal
with its bureaucratic militias
and shuffling dreams------
Listen, hear, feel now
the worlds being held
knowing we are the time of such skies,
and the bonging of such domes.
Stephen Mead is an Outsider multimedia artist and writer. Since the 1990s he’s been grateful to many editors for publishing his work in print zines and eventually online. He is also grateful to have managed to keep various day jobs for the Health Insurance. Currently he is resident artist/curator for The Chroma Museum, artistic renderings of LGBTQI historical figures, organizations and allies predominantly before Stonewall: The Chroma Museum.