Night glass
full of froth,
the one-arm
scissor's voice,
a balestra
of cold idea,
a zugzwang
where I must
speak, I must,
but every word
will haunt me,
like the faces
of vapor that rise
at dawn from
the lawn.

The stars are
dying up there,
as the brute
sun rises again
& they fade
to zero
in the blue.  
I have such
terrible flurries
of thought
at night,
everything is
crushing, but
inevitably the black
gives way to indigo,
then a delicate purple,
then to bright cobalt.
Things are better
under the opening
sun and its
tanning wing.

The devil sits
beside me,
feeding me his
melting whispers
dense as biscuits
full as the head
of the tree.
I can only banish
him back to his
bottle with the
piano, writing
songs in D minor,
letting the paint
listen as the hands
are moving,
weaving spells.

Finally, order
in my mind -
these doubts
will pass from history -
evanescence.
Other worries fall
like rippling castles.
I wake up too early
but there you are.
Things seem ok
in the deep deep
blue of morning,
stars hanging dead
in the sky as the
carving sun toasts
away the dew,
and doubts fade
back to zero.