A moon disc moves around in space,
beaming white with shades of time
as the pupil of a cosmic eye,
an aperture of the mind.
Its clouded iris billows,
evolving mountains in the sky
as textured fields of cirrostratus
caressing what's divine.
There's a copper sclera of diffraction,
as concentric rings of luminescence
enjoy, for tonight, partaking of this essence.

Do the pinewood teeth serrating mountains
not speak for want of a tongue?
I know they sigh sometimes with longing
when they're moved before a gale.
I hear your storm has started calling,
as the wind whispers me your tale.
The rain's a heavy harmony,
strumming straight on panes of glass,
and those rivulets of running water
walk patience to the brink
as the eddies of a circling mind
whirl cogs which make me think:

*I see your face in scattered strangers,
your form behind the rippling of skirts.
I hope your restlessness will soothe itself
and you feel at home, here on this earth.

"Would you like to share my umbrella?"
A voice said behind me,
quiet and reserved,
testing uncertainty with a modest proposal.
It was raining, after all.
Maybe I looked a little forlorn
walking alone along the path.
My pants were soaked and
I was contemplating the pattern
that liquid found through my pants.
Top of the thigh,
middle of the shin,
top of the foot.
I stopped and looked at the voice.
Her head was wrapped with a scarf,
dark brown pools reflected
through the opening of cloth.
"Sure." I said, and stepped inside.
She fussed with the umbrella, said
"This umbrella leaks,
I don't think it was made for the rain.
It must be one of those sun umbrellas.
My head keeps getting wet."
She unwrapped her scarf,
her straight dark hair fell out.
She patted her head.
She said her name.
Maybe I should feel ashamed
that I don't recall her name.
Me: "Where are you off to?"
Her: "Jack Baskin. You?"
Me: "Core West."
Her: "Where's that? By Kerr?"
Me: "The parking structure."
Her: "Oh, I know where that is.
           Do you know what time it is?"
Me: "I dunno, 11:45?" I checked the time.
        "Oh, wow, 11:58."
Her: "I don't have class until 12:30."
Me: "What class?"
Her: "Spanish 4."
And we talked in similar patterns
for the rest of the walk.
She liked the rain, and so did I.
She wished she stayed home.
So did I.
I showed her a path in the forest,
past the makeshift hut
that habitual smokers crafted
to hide with their habits.
I showed her the bench,
she was pleased with surprise.
Her: "How old are you?"
Me: "Oh, twenty..." I hesitated,
doing mental math "...four. You?"
Her: "Twenty-one."
Me: "Ah, I see you're surviving your twenty-first."
Her, laughing: "I lost my ID when I turned 21.
       I didn't do much drinking on my birthday.
       I don't like the clubs, or bars."
I didn't like them either.
Me: "What're you doing when you graduate?"
Her: "I want to join the Peace Corps.
          I want to travel around the world,
         and help people. It's why I study biology."
Me: "Yeah, travel is great. You should go do that."
Her: "Well, I told my parents. They don't want me to.
          I was born in the Philippines.
          My parents immigrated here.
          They want me to be happy and stationary here.
          Not traveling the world, you know?"
I knew.
She reached into her bag, pulled out a banana.
Her: "Would you like some of this banana?"
Me: "Sure."
We talked a bit more, about the dreads
of dealing with box-checking pre-meds,
of the work-load for a graduate student,
of what it's like up in Arcata.
Twenty minutes disappeared
quicker than is fair.
We left towards the engineering hall.
We parted at the parking structure.
Her: "Farewell, it was nice talking to you, Dylan."
Me: "Aye, it was a pleasure. Farewell."
I felt bad I didn't remember her name,
but I'll remember the unsolicited kindness,
and try to pass it along all the same.

In the shade of a willow,
down by a stream,
I wander down the hallway
of my fantasy.

I'm drifting like a cloud,
a shadow in the sky,
trying to find the courage
to go ahead and try.

I'm looking 'round at beauty
that's battered to the ground,
trampled by the people
blindly wandering around.

It's got me feeling hopeless.
I'm really feeling down.
Is there no one here who loves me
in this God-forsaken town?

I'm ignored by the strangers,
polishing their diadem.
What they all believe
is a wish fulfilling gem.

Life has got me thinking
that it's hard to find a friend.
I think of all those little games
that I don't comprehend.

I'll recognize your face
when I see you in the crowd.
I'll know you when you say
my name out loud.

Where are you, my lover?
Have you gone and lost your way?
Have your forgotten
everything you'd like to say?

I'll wait for you, my darling,
honest, brave, and kind.
I'll think about the mysteries
and magic we will find.

Walking by the river.
Footsteps in the sand.
Everything I say to you,
I know you'll understand.

And I'm alone in the ruins of the jungle.
The probing grasp of vining plants
twists questions out of dirt
and threads together disparate trees
whose trunks are full of centuries.
The ancient pyramids herald the sky
as darkened clouds return.
I do not fear the coming rain.

The rainfall used to be consoling,
like I'd hear the rhythm of your voice,
the cadence of your metered step,
inside the pit-pat play around my head.
Now there's only atonal dissonance
although I've seen the muses dance
to the static between my ears,
and I've seen the nymphs run wild
through forgotten foliage of time.

I don't know where else to look, love.
I think I've finally lost your track.

When day or night collide with frantic circumstance,
I'm left to pick the pieces up of sacrificed romance.
Could it be that I'm the unlucky one with nowhere left to stay?
Though I'm not pining for the moments that I passed along the way,
or the shades of broken people that are too afraid to heal.
They've left their hope behind, dressed in threads unreal.
Their heavy hallowed hearts are covered and still too far behind
and burdens burn their words when they lie and say they're fine.
Still, beauty spins from every fragment ruptured from their skin
as eyes and teeth twist together in a whirlwind of a grin.
I'm trying to be a full person, from my hair down to my feet
and stare down every obstacle while beaming from my seat.
For fortune has no favor, and I have no power to make it sway.
There's nothing you can do for me but close your eyes and pray.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not the place to play.
You have fields as far as
sunny hillsides on a summer's day
with waves of wild wind
whimlessly rolling in the hay.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not the place to sleep.
You have quiet afternoons
to rest with lazy sheep
and build a dream of  crowning castles
that your mind will let you keep.

Keep out of the garden, son.
That's not your place today.

I can feel your gaze upon me,
though we're space and time apart.
Maybe you thought in whispered words      
of tales unraveled in the dark.
Perhaps you looked through pictures,
still-life captures of a face
frozen in the moments
written down on halted days.
I can feel your gaze upon me,
and I wish it would never stop.
For when you look upon me,
it fills my vessel to the top
and the poetry comes flowing out
like I've been a poet all my life
while the world could sing and dance
a play penned in strokes of light.
Every moment is perfection,
and I'll take it all as such.
If your eyes are full of longing
when I feel your gaze upon me,
know that I miss you just as much.