The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

on the move

Fi and Michael on the move, crossing themselves out,
the door open, and Fi and Michael are on the move;
we've waited for these moments of empathy and love,
waited for years; they're on a plane, they're doomed
to repetition. Fi and Michael don't know that; each
is new to them, their emotions opening like flowers;
they don't know each time is like the first or last,
all looped and circular, always the same opening,
they don't know that, we do, we do, we do.

Blue Skies as I am on the move, separated by encounters,
the beatings of the heart of the machine, and breathless
Blue Skies, they are so simple, they are so profound,
and like them, pulling us along, we are profound as well,
pulsing with empathy and love, these encounters coming,
fitfully, to an end, like flowers, like love, like Fi
and Michael, unlooping.

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