We're as dust
settling...shaken
from our own feet.
Yet, our feet are
so big they need
not go anywhere.

There's something
about a windswept
mountaintop...
cooling the sun.

As you hold
those you pray
for in prayer...
you pray with
the power of
every prayer
ever prayed.
You pray for
everything.

While sitting
contemplating
the wind's birthplace...
a windborn object
got caught in my
eye.
Naturally, I sought
to remove it...and to
my dismay it was
now a dead fly.

If your inner
life suddenly
appeared as
an outward
manifestation...
I promise you,
no one is capable
of judging the piece.

Paradox
wants nothing
more than
to bind the
hands of a moment.
So that living-death
may take courage.

A cessation, the best
of black, having overslept
the eye of the needle...
some midnight sun
flung to shield this perpetual
wakefulness, becoming it the
more.
Ascents and views, sound
barriers broken...ice cold stars,
white winds of burnt cores.