atoms cried for
"home, home, home."
you came. brought
the rains that fell
on blessed fields
and wet the dirt
and crushed the
petals. listen: "ah,"
they gasp, and "here
it is," and "home
is the thing that
hides in the rain."

it is dark, and in the center of the dark

is a white spotlight

and a box as if on the floor

of a stage



a hand enters the light

it is lifting the box and holding it up for display

but what is the box

is it pandora’s dowry

or

a collection of nails and screws from my father’s garage

does it drip with old motor oil

are rust flakes clinging to the hand

is it covered in mud and clinging roots

inside a tin robot, ripped playing cards, a length of string

and a box of matches

is it tin or wood is it light or heavy

and if it’s heavy will the thing inside blind me

is it the ark of the covenant

or an old wedding ring

or a penny, or a dead worm



the hand retreats with the box

pulls back into the dark

there is only the spotlight

and the light is gone

the last time i flew
it was daylight
i didn’t look out the window.

now
i look outside and see
a thousand lights;
and each light is
a thousand souls
burning against
the
gaslamp yellow nightscape.

clouds provide a familiar metaphor
yet those nightshade souls still glimmer through
where the cotton grey
is weakest
shining
as i like to imagine they will always shine
even though i know
that always is a relative term.

once in Tokyo i had the perfect drink
like electric moonbeams
and violets
and secrets soaked in gin.

i taste it here
in the recycled air above the nightscape
while viewing the souls
that may or may not be
the remnants of fevered dreams.

listen with me
if we’re very quiet, we can hear
the faint strains of
tokyo jazz
filtering through the soft thrum
of wheels and
motorized air
and a crying baby that’s never tasted
the smoky sweet burn of gin and juniper.

Poor fly.
He taps at the window
longing for his home
but he is stuck inside with me
and my swatter.

Once, after a long summer and a few too many draughts
of harvest ale,
Father Time overslept.  
While he ignored his massive
grandfather alarm clock,
the world’s population stood frozen
impatiently checking their watches and muttering to each other
“whatever could have happened?” and
“he’s always been such a reliable employee.”

He only woke when time flew into his bedroom
and nipped him on the ear
once
twice
the third bite was charmed.
Father Time woke to see Baby New Year
glaring and tapping his plump little wrist
from the end of the bed.

Father Time used a number of words that cannot be repeated.
They all had four letters.
Some of them were learned in France.

Afterwards time had to be hastened to make up for when it lost itself.
Leaves fell overnight and animals dropped into hibernation where they stood.
Thanksgiving and Christmas ran into each other, so that
people were eating turkey legs while they shopped for
presents.
None of the Christmas trees had been cut down. Instead,
on cold evenings across the world, people stumbled into the woods
lit a single candle
and opened their presents in the snow.
This of course was very messy and that year squirrels and birds had nests made of
wrapping paper and tinsel.

Poor Father Time never heard the end of his slip up.
Years later, he was still getting
alarm clocks and
roosters for his birthday.
He took them and slid them in his voluminous sleeves;
expression grave, as ever, but the slight blush
on the edge of his cheeks gave his embarrassment away.

Here is a truth:

We may draw lines around a thing,
but they will never be more
than tricks of the eye.

The shapes of things are blurred
and shift too often
to properly map.

Relax.

Rules and nomenclature
ain't no fun, and
bean counting leads to  
indigestion.

Picture in me the ravening beast
and you’ll have a sketch of my character;
though I’ll warn you
it is not I who stalks deadly in the night,
looking for soft flesh on fleeing feet
and the taste of fear.
I save my prowling
for the scullery door and
the elusive glow of the hot oven.
I am the Thing That Scuttles,
the Devourer of Grains,
a card carrying member of the Cheese Sanctification Society.
(Progenitor of Pestilence, too, if you want to get fancy).
Stop up your cracks and close your cellar doors.
Anything less than a full lock down
I consider an invitation.
There are no spells to keep me away for long.
No beauty dares kiss my lips
and try to change me.
Isn’t that grand?
I know of no creature more comforted
by their own monstrosity than I.