I sleep until Morpheus laughs milk through his nose and abruptly laugh at us Both. yesterday’s whole-grain toast on a doily, derelict and butter-cuffed- where a bite was sincere and absent-minded. Much like a peasant’s frenzy, with manners from Empty tables. Only good enough to gauge the width of a Total Farce.
Or sum the Sublime with a Catalogue of Lost Arts.
I awake when the dream begins . And you wanna hear me talk about snow right now.
And I bother.
“ The blanket is a kind of white noise that only the eye can see - as a Blue Thing.
It’s fading… and nothing comes close to not beholding. We are all In for the finch and the hare and the crepe of crisp.
pinned to a theme of our leisurely stroll- through damp crystals as awestruck as Winter at Spring.
On the cusp of our twilight, serene seraphs slumber born of golden spite and joysome psalms, woven from unspoken skin to stitch ice to every paw of Dawn clawing at the hem of Night.
And where Winter falls, I stay awake to chart comets and chimneys Like any awkward Silence thought I might.