Parenthesis, Ascona

Not the mathematical kind,
compassing terms and expressions,
instructions for the quant…

though the image intimates the essence,
good luck parsing intentions!
Union or exclusion, protection or provocation?

Both? Neither? Maybe the gist
is really about an interval, rest
from the endless everyday

we pantomime against being.
Your eyes glint,
our fingertips spark

like the dock light.
We splash water over the rim
of our transfigured immanence

and our mist sprays the Teutonic tourists
with their eine Pizza, eine Coca, einen Spritz.
Dark mountains rise

above us, embrace
us, say, This first.
You belong hic et

nunc

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