How nice would it be,  
To dance beneath the stars.
Wails of current couldn't wash me,
Neither could it keep us apart.

The crescent moon,
On edge of the horizon.
Later introducing,
It's impartial luminescence.

How nice would it be,
To sit with you for the last time.
Turning mournings and sadness,
To confetti in the sky.

surreal landscapes                                             

juxtaposed;
       ­                         tellurian sentiments
                      
                               ­  along ethereal lines

tell me,

does lavender bloom

betwixt stars?

Ink
blots
impossible
knots
testing the limits of
a circular drive
one hand on the wheel
the other copping a feel
of his passenger mate
dutifully nursing her neonate
foot goes down
to apply the break
fracturing fingers
is what it will take
to lessen
the voice
avoid
the slade
move
the mountain
tell me, don't floaters
eventually get flushed?