Way, Side A

Way

what is this road that separates us

across which I hold out the hand of my thoughts

a flower is written at the end of each finger

and the end of the road is a flower which walks with you

Tristan Tsara, Way, from Selected Poems, translated by Lee Harwood

My own way of seeing Way is: this made me think of you, each thought of mine a flower I could offer you to make your absence – the road that separates us – join our spines together, silently rejoicing of their mutual embrace, like the pale blue flower of pain and bliss I placed on your mouth not to forget about our meeting, and parting, by chance.