Outside it thunders
rumbles warnings
occasionally drops fall like stars
across an unfocused gaze
the bank hisses, its language uncomprehensible
but ever rushing on to an uncared for destination
its so still outside as I sit there drinking my tea
green flecks against a slate blue
mimic the green of grass and the trees around me

An occasional pinprick has me flinching
wary of when the thunder will keep its promise
yet I finish my cup and it is a little red ant
that notifies me of my unwelcome
the thunder still rumbles on outside
uncertain now maybe, stuttering
I ruminate on a pinpoint
one I’ve been circling for months it feels
my realizations bitter on my tongue
on second thought maybe that’s the tea

Like a half mast eye of exacerbation
or a cradle in the sky
the product of celestial meandering
has an after image lingering in the dark
playful and true its light skips leagues

As you watch, water laps against another storied shore
stuccoed terra-cotta rise crumbling from the dock
as if the earth itself shored itself up
its purpose far forgotten, relegated to nostalgia
a wafting of a lullaby forever haunts the alleys
its nexus, the river of the dead, promises absolution
where souls of silt meet the distant sea
that steadily yearns for that waning smile
they sink till the unbecoming
to wake when the waves grace them again

Ripples in a contrasting sky
borrowed from its red twin
the obelisk stood in black relief
a windmill motionless despite the
whirr of arthropod wings
suddenly a flop and a splash
Ghostly vessels under the paint
who sink, bringing together
disparate moments
the puzzle separated by decades
find each others' kin

Two birds spiraling in the air
following invisible currents
not sure if they're fighting or dancing
a singular bird detaches itself to join the black feathered tree
a signal, a 6th sense and the sighing ascent
whorling indrawn infinities in a parking lot
mimic the wink of scales and whisper of movement unheard
with torpedoed underwater shrapnel of individual forms
vast landscapes made minuscule by little giants
creating living patterns, unknown beasts, maybe sentient?

Quiet night, hushed and enveloping
it calls to a wandering spirit
asks it, color in the darkness with your thoughts
let it expand filling the four corners
till the world is your own creation
echoing with your image
you vain creature
but I suppose it lends to your clarity
quieting your agitating negativity
the night echos back your truest free self
more than a word, than a relationship,
the fragments of a whole known only to you
perhaps shallow to others but deep enough to
paint the night, the dome of your thoughts
finally present around you