W R I T T E N · W OR K



by Robert Ranieri, 2013



 That tree up there, so distorted. We climb to reach its place where soil gives way to roots.  Weathered roots adhere around a polished rock; a rock like an open palm of hand, a gnarled hand, knotted veins.  
         Rock and tree, a knotted hand of mangled fingers, twists to grasp whatever passes time by time,
each moment held focused  in the light.
We must know the light remains;   there.
Again we climb up there; to see the hand.
Know the hand that holds the rock with twisted fingers.
Can we climb up there again? again?
         Scratched like weathered bronze these markers, my
old leather boots on a shelf. They often march across Manhattan in the drear of august, where sweaty faces are fumed at street corners by bulky buses.
         Fueled by a few dollars, enough for coffee at the stand up corner shop, and needing a respite from loneliness;  what to do?
         Sunday at the Met museum, is a quiet reverie.
         A kind of sanity, and self preservation is felt in this place, when the noise of the depressed streets outside is distant.
         A lovely young lady shared a large painting with me. We studied it together. Our eyes scanned the work; she volunteered quick insights. We felt alone with one another in this space, and would later return to my East Village apartment, after it was explained that our intimacy would not be assumed, though once there, we did spend the evening and overnight together, in a sensuous rapture.
         Rock, tree and flowing water.





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