with our elbows clutched
we grasp at the bleachers
of all our stars
and
worn by Time...
slip the knife
into the Palace of all Flesh
where the integers number themselves
among the Zeroes
of our God's Laugh-matics
as we practice the wind
in a spoon.

we are in Love.
but not in the
Moon.

we are more in the deep
than the candy....
and thrice removed.
more like a Circus Intent
folding in a roustabout's
plucky croon -
that hammers the long toil
of every day
into the locket
of our dream
undeployed.

II

i have seen the middle
and gone mad.

but near the end
i have seen
the rest.

and returned.
more than
that.