Spirals adhere, illusions, gestures fragmented.
If I don’t concentrate, dimness comes.
This tinge is similar to something painful.
So perhaps it’s better to let loss be expected
as soft rains or someone treading at your back
with a tray of full tea cups, steadily, carefully …
That presence is remembrance, the flicker effacing itself.
It can’t help but haunt, all thoughts, breeze-loosened, swung ajar,
existence, a confession the night tells while pouring past.
About the Poet
Stephen Mead is an Outsider multi-media 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