the cavalry of the centaur

composes him, halved lord

of the rush made complete.

a groundswell foresting,

blowing open a canopy.

redhaired variations to the maiden

meeting the charge of her

foliage head on.

the spine of her last change

of color.

parting her fingers on that

forest ground.

the stuffing of clouds

have popped out,

over-clung and ragged

dolls slung over space.

inanimate and sidelong

stares of stopped time,

exhibiting forgetfulness

too gone to lose.

explosions of pindrops

far off, and far into The Now.

similar to abandoning the

keenest mind like an unwanted

pet, tentatively trotting away.

looking back once and a while.

a poem has come through

all the windows, leaving

her mindspaces on the walls.

carrying sensory input to

the degree of birth.

she's so good to those walls,

that they stand up to fall...

a poem of hallways seeing

straight.

leading and led by, floodings

of light echoing feet.

waited for behind every door.

a poem of hallways let in.

Mother, I've a question

for you--as you questioned

me to talk to yourself.

my solitariness shook you

to your core, those nine

months endeavor to teach

You too.

so it was you asked yourself,

your son--why he can be alone

like a madman.

I stepped forward only to reply--

that type of question rubs me

the wrong way.

yours was a plea for company, and

a loving condemnation for he that

avoids it.

wagered of this

sitting, meditation

sits across from me.

staring, unblinking--

through clay, at clay.

there's room to move

there somehow, splinter a

glass timetable with silence.

to timeout seeing.

to mean what you mean,

and know about being there.

something happens that way,

something always happens

that way.

the rain is opening

pieces of light to a

grey sheen.

its gurgle of closing

statements fasten

houses, dividing

distances.

the rain is thinking

of something beyond

wetness...I want to know.