Window beaded, raindrops gnashing silvery
white, at core--grey sky in each, each to each
a composite of it.
Room....an abstract memory scheme, dull blocks of
color hanging in there.
Afternoon in the middle of itself, January in the
beginning of itself.
Formative limbo offering both its cheeks, the world
entire taking it up on its offer.
Head bows ever slowly, a religion of one in the making.
Do not doubt there are digestive points strewn throughout
days--whereupon one embodies the throes of all creation.
Thoughts...come and go with a reflective quality whose
tonalities divide and conquer what must be static...for change.

~May you hang
freely, midst the
closed lines of
years~

Bleeding buffers,
pressed against
a world that pictures...
ramifying colors--
spidering glass that crackles.
What a beautiful
headdress.
Stasis of newness,
plus and minus the
headiness of years.

Breath is never
baited, its sea has
already parted.
In its place a mountain
stands, a man lain across
its peak.
There exposed, what bone
may box a breast,  O dear Mother--
never off kilter.
Therefrom a thread so gold, marrow
met skin, up and away...
a steady pull by the tail end
of an angel.
Relative as the bent forefront of love's law,
where all reunion leaves no remnant.
To find a faith so becoming, space leaves
room for space verging on itself.
How blue the pearl, how circular
the sky of its sea...how golden grows
the thread that breaks with every breath.

A razor's
edge is what
smiles...and
all the blood
that must
play catch up.
The irregular tap
of passion.

There's a vividness
to speak of, redder than
wine...where a snowflake's
a white city.
Amending symmetries of
dreams, cut by a sky's
searchless sight.
All flesh a haze, bony scaffolding
of an idol...standing motionless
in a current of centerlessness.
Made immense by a season,
which never gains on its passing.

As this Sunday afternoon
writes itself into existence...
pine needles ****** fine
crowns of sunlight.
Depths of shadow have
entered into states of
reverence...along a pine
tree.