in the hour of my dislocated Id
purging the snowblind hedgerows
of my blighted mind.
where the minute of my larks are loons.
plump silver spoons in a pool of moons
sleeping in a manger.
in the Tempus, my time has more swiftly
become invalid
in a maze of white noise algebra
deriving the sum of madness
by dividing by an infinite
collapse.

then and there i see The Map
of my extinguished constellations
in favor of holes where
there used to be -
painless days. The world shone there
with too many Orchards for too many Wines.
no casks of vinegar
have gone missing.
as they lay under rubble
and stiff winds. where I could find them.
i see the gossamer clouds of a mind
at the mercy of a somber pondering…
and islands of remote cacophony
in every sea of damage -
nameless.

and Hope.

where the islands are gone.
for they had sprouted
wings.

and moved to a pond.