THE BENCH

There was this line in Philip Glass's opera "Two lovers sat on a park bench with their bodies touching each other..." It was a beautiful love story carried by haunting music. It went round and round in my head until I spat it out and turned it into four upside-down images. What happens after the poem is spoken, blown away, lost? Words that wander without love, glances that stop looking, words that are no longer listened to, no longer heard. But I'm surely wrong.