She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.

Softly she tread, floating above the clover
Seas.  Suddenly lost, bold honey bees forgot
The scent of flowers blooming.  Iridescent wings,
Humming birds, monarchs, dragons, flying in
Procession and the mushrooming dew now rising
Began to swell, raining upwards into the mystic
Blue heavens and the trees beyond that clearing
Stood longingly amazed, so green their spying
Gaze, when all the myriad flowers loosely fell
And all the gathering of colours faintly dimmed.

She came upon a meadow, then she undressed;
And when she was naked, the meadow blushed.

Because the cost of a soul is the price of a moment.

Because time had no beginning, but ends at forever, hanging helpless from the corner of the sphere.

Because the light will still find your brain, hidden at dead dark midnight, tickle your eyelids, and dance in a place you don’t dare mention by name.

Because darker is biggest and most beautiful, and the light men stood as the last link in the chain, the whip in the right hand of god.

Because the blood on the meter is a narcotic brew of Pacific, Atlantic, and flaming Arctic waters, set ablaze by giants who lived in the age of wine.

Because the sound of a tree falling in an empty forest rings out once, but is heard in two ways.

Because the wind cries the song of the living.

Because the sun sets and the moon rises.

Because the river water is cool.

Because the cost of a moment is the price of a soul.

Because.

Outside, golden hands make the light change colours.
Hypnos tells me it’s okay; I tell him I’m fightless.
Cold daylight chews me into nighttime pieces
and perhaps if I tell the sun what I’m reading it will stay a little longer.

Everything past the window is uneven and loud like the ocean,
melancholy and pointed, all knees and fists and teeth.
September falls into October and paper stays paper,
though it used to be trees somewhere in the sun,
but the real truth is that there is emptiness in everything, not just beds.

October is coming in like a train whose whistle echoes for days,
an old steam engine with one hundred thousand windows,
whole rooms for watching time but no space for little tides, big blinks,
or eating up a list of books I must read before I turn twenty-five.

Light retires with a soporific goodnight and all that is left is a dearth of sleep,
imaginary owls and other big-eyed birds contemplating stars.
Morning will sound like breathless trees stretching new leaves,
clouds whirling, tiny winds darting through my sheets until I am grey again.
Sleep is just dust and I hate feeling filthy.