At Grauman’s

I don’t know what it means,

this semblance of purity,

atoned on the pavement

like death,

a hand print in concrete,

silent, still

holding frame,

letting go flesh and bone.

Some trees dig down

for pockets of moisture like this,

letting go of sky,

pushing in through earth.


Subtle as it is,

sky does ask one

to rise to the occasion.

And one always and only

rises as high

as height.

There is no more to destiny.


Except that it leaves its mark;

except that kneeling down

to make it;

except that wet gush

between the fingers;

except that one moment

is the whole picture.

Height is imaginary. Depth is all there is.  From there, a moment, any moment shares its deepest essence and leaves its mark on the world.

© Andrea Mathews, 2015


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