My lute has found a voice
made of porcelain
and the risible rattle
of dry leaves.
I have only one note.
But my lunacy resounds.
With only two hands
I grasp; dropping -
the Sun…

But I keep the Moon
for an Eclipse
when I want
one.

like an amateur Magician
at a Mirror,
over a
Sink.

i shave a Dove
in my sleeve -
for the
wings.

that I weave
for lucid
Sleep.

[ I think }