The sun comes out from behind the clouds,
And I become tangent for seconds; mere minutes,
As the arc of rays reaches deeper inside,
Excavating myself, from me:
I tread old memories, on borrowed time;
Friends and loved ones, all borne away:
Am I but the pale ghost, of yesterday?

A reckoning, was the waste of loving you;
Whose heart was otherwhere, who's eyes
Could never resist a new, stunning view.
My solitary hovering as innocuous as a bee,
Stalking the mortal garden, come sun or shower;
As predictable as rain, as forgettable as a flower-
My comedic pratfalls less memorable,
Than her cries of elation:
Her eggs more precious than mine.

There's an air of stale tobacco;
But nobody here's been smoking,
And a feeling of wilted flowers,
But no one has yet to die.
And the air moves all on it's own;
With a trace of smooth monotony,
Changeless, beneath the sky;
All our mouths are dry and cottony.

There's words you would not speak,
Though the bells might be hovering,
Soundless, for a wedding,
They're waiting to keep,
Invitations, sent on the breeze,
And the guests; fabrications of movement,
In a church, with an empty steeple:
My life is moments, such as these

Filled with plastic, mannequin people.

What are pleasure and pain to us,
Held in the grip of time's hand, as we are?
Hostage to the intervention of circumstance,
Or privy to the secrets of youth or age;
What do we know, and who could we tell it to,
Even if somebody wanted to listen to us?

What am I, that I should be walled in by your eyes;
When you could choose, out of the entire world,
Why choose something tangent, perishable,
Entangled in this solitude of emotion?
Our paths are lonely, though we pass close by,
Caught up in our own brand of darkness,
Suffering our own unquiet silences.

We are impenetrable forests
Lost inside of a fairy tale,
Dreamed up by an imaginary god
Who is so long ago,
So far away, by now..

Nighttime clouds must veil the stars,
As we must veil our thoughts

And winter's clouds hide winter gales,
Until the sunshine's brought

And spindly branch of broken trees
Must scratch the shadowed days;

Until the spring arrives in wind,
When green uncovers May.

In a dream I shall feel
The wings of the world unfolding, and
Worlds spinning on the axis of mad journeys;
And the seas breaking turquoise, upon their rippled surface.

In the heart of the ears
I shall hear the shivering willows, dreaming their
Wood-smoke dreams, full of sap and  funneled sunlight;
Pierced by light for a thousand years

And the flowers sleeping nestled in stars;
Gathered in the deep, among the wood-thrushes,
In coagulated violet forests, all shadowed and dark:
And a whispered peace barely rustles this world.