It is morning-time, and I walk
meandering paths pull me, a crisp breeze pushes me
the earth supports me and falls away with each passing step
it can only hold me when I'm there

softwood trees bend around the trail, and hardwood trees enrich their denouement. A glittering canopy of dewy leaves curls atop my route, the moonbeams seeming to dawn from inside each perfect ornament. but I know the finished moon floats just above them

my steps flow in a steady rhythm, regularly broken by the passage of a memory. Sometimes it is time. Sometimes it is a dance. Once it was another Being that caught my consideration; a ghostly doe, visible just through a break in the wood, a brown and white-speckled spectre crashing through the hinterland, startled by my feet, by my breath-

the breeze is stronger now, and made anxious by the din my pace quickens. memories stream by faster, woken up by the filtered moonlight, pulled out from abeyance. leaves drifting upon a whirling river, clouds being ripped into a storm.

it is morning-time, and I walk
the sky is deepening, though the moon is descending
too much has happened, too much has passed into yore
I remember just enough, and it is mourning-time

light       refracts     into
your       cold          shining
prison
Encased in             our
most       desired   compound
a              rainbow ripples
across     the          crystal
surface
fists         bounce   and
words     are          formed,
but           I              cannot
hear
through  your       love
and         mine

lifting my eyes to the sky I see the
crescent moon
illuminating, enlightening, cool
she is all of this - but not tonight
the sky is too dark, she is too weak, you are too far away from me
for any of it to matter
Love can strike us in an instant
and we can take a lifetime to understand it.
just as her eyes strike my retinae
just as your visage strike my face
just as you struck me
but she will always spin, orbiting around me,
until the pull of gravity cannot hold her anymore
just as you have already left

It sits at the base of the stairs
that lead to the attic;
It sits on the landing floor just
before the basement door;
It rests in a liminal space.

Big, person-sized, it fills the end of the hall
way in the very back.
Carved by an entrepreneur de pompes funèbres with
a knack for carpentry and a deep
undying love for her husband.

Glass inlaid reveals the gears
within, once plated in bronze
but now with only a dull luster.
They haven't been treated gently
by that which they keep.

Two massive pendula swing
back and forth, back and forth, alternating
currents, propelled by springs
set in motion long before
Louis XIV lost to William III

The children like to sit and
watch the hands spin with the
pendula "tick" "tock" "tick"
as the face and hands are a
mottled bronze to match.

During Black Mass it's best not to
watch though. For sometimes a smell
emanates from the spaces between
the gears, "kcit" "kcot" "kcit" si
lla uoy raeh, dna emit seog
                                       sdrawkcab.

our moon circles about the earth
our earth circles about the sun
and yet I don't feel like I'm spinning

My head is clear, my eyes are closed, my heart is
open and I am alive

The past is over and the future is far away and
here we are now; Living
breathing, an existence

absolute in its simplicity enigmatic in its complexity

my life's ephemera flashes before me as I stand in the same
realm I did last year, the same position in the void of space
calls to me

and as I sit, wafts of the Darjeeling mixing with bubbles of music, June, I know that I am happy. I know I am ready

strawberry milk tea
doesn't mix well with coffee
"oh, you taste sweet!"
older and younger meltaway
as the sun decides it's the end of the day
but there wasn't a lot
                of usable flesh