The scent of your breath across
the horizon of my sternum

& the pull & clench beneath,
is tectonic; white birds
rise & fly, die
& descend.

she was prosedy
not encoded in anything shorter
than herself
and herself was vast

she was vocabulary and rhyme all
at once
she was the loudness
with which I cried

intensity and duration
spectrally my rhyme
you just had to hear her

whereby the pause
was significant
I cried higher

higher until
she stopped
listening

to decide are you better now
has the hand of fate made you wiser
richer or  more prolific

is that not enough time
to decipher truth and reason and rhyme
or I will give you ten more

and will that make the differences
to make you perfect then
then is what I look at

now needs to be studied
amplified sung seen
now is all there is

for certain and so fleeting
as to where it is or where it needs to be
but, if one

calms hisself himself herself its being
enough now comes crystal clear
now

cleanses the past de-worries the future
doesn't depend on fair skies or riches
now is breathing

is all we have
is something the Philosophers
missed

it is hard to grasp now and hold her down
in fact it's impossible
but if you can try

to live  in the  now
then then becomes passe

I was never the type
of child that obeyed
much  of anything;
not even the many
times  I was told
not to stare into
the evening sun
when I felt
alone.

Like a web the morning fog entangles the tall trees
It drapes the valley as a smoke filled mystery
Feel free to walk among its time and length for the are treacherous exercises
What appears suddenly surly leads to ones demise
Such was my fantasy of you
That smile entangled me too soon
Your mystery I need to unravel
But only with time
Your sudden appearance and movements are sublime
Shall I fall into that treacherous exercises of chasing you
Not knowing of my demise
I'll pick yes for my mind is smoke filled
Yet the clearing is before my eyes

Heavy chested I breathe
as the moon whitewashes the night.

The season is changing
and in the wind is the vapor of hyacinth
in the thick of which
the glowworms drink the nectar of night.

They have no philosophy and I have many
like while they dance just for the sake of life
my mind enveloped in obscurity
has shackled my feet and clipped my wings.

I wonder if the glowworms have a mind
that knows when they dance
they have an audience.

Maybe the stars know the same way
when they twinkle.