the world underneath
the thatched bowl
of night
is waiting for
vernal beginnings.
sleep is
transit.
dream is the
locomotive.
the wind blows through the window
with a sequence of perceived ends.
my only moon reels through
  everything's impending newness,
  trailing a far-flung equinox.
clock's fulcrum turns a page
  and the now dislimned words tumble, scouring to be seen but
   denied of emphasis.

if only we could singlehandedly
blow each of the candles on the
night's banquet, we wouldn't be this restless in waiting.