Language is judgement, Nac said

It
was wrong what he did.

I may have agreed once – but – now -

now,
I have no balance
sheet

to
survey with eyes of inward glory,

no
immoral moral mouth
to sup with. I see things differently.

Did
the astrologer predict his own

end?
Does it matter?

Does
it matter here in infinity, in the

space

outside,
looking in, seeing

it,
the repetition, the boundless-ness

of
globe and cyclic flow.

It
was wrong -

a
brighter speck of litness and silence, Venus,

in
the star-shot night, plays attendance,

proximity,
on a giant clip of moon, rocked to one side.

Each
unaware of the other – their proximity only

to
our eyes, our vision

The
silence is proximity, with games run

and
going into nowhere. It

was
not wrong what she did. She did what

she
did for closeness, to touch. Your escape

spoke
to her – she found time and scope in it –

before
she looked away and turned back. It

was
not wrong what she did.

And
now, perhaps, without scales, precision
and choice,

she
stares into the lit screen, finding

answers
and stories, trying to forget and

unforget.