A mirage, mise-en-scène, emerges an image
Phantasms of what-if’s, or a bird’s eye view from Dementia VI?
“Point your finger at the sky...” and on high spies that camera for posterity — elsewhere, elsewhen, a fly on heaven’s ceiling, drawing close on the feeling
Iéna had lured from afar, and now on that bridge the both of you are
Damp grey concrete under skies cold blue; tension, pathos, and presque vu
And still, love is carried on a breeze, fleeting, yet permanent, as the camera pulls away
Into the ether the moments freeze, et c’est trop demander
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