In absence of the few,
a current flows lightly
and if the blade of thoughts lingering
fade in the wake of tomorrow, a gasp
will follow.
The lone tendril curls and reveals
solace for tomorrow, a million
syllables found in infinite sounds.

Here, there are only cauls
waning in the night
where the preacher surrendered his hands
and revealed the anchored eyes
of the subdued.

We were only sleeping, the coma
of the waking, the silence of the breathing,
the Ides stretching beneath the fount
and bow of the Nazarene--

a blue lining to veil
the face of today.