Is a Gust with speckled dew
seething in it: is trinkets
like prayer beads, like
Polaroids in a frittered
shoebox for keeping,
or the way I greet you.
Talking is air rolling
from me, or to,
as I have always known it.

I sought from the wind
and found nothing.
Yet behind me pressing,
press half known
importance, and under
this drifting vessel, I dream
to be untied of it
yet consent to be taken by it.

Not the wafting thistles
of my inverted self
amidst the dew, but
but the nebulous tides
of grandeur that mother, jah,
Samara, late night television,
and father figure(s)
have promised,
as they are the most rigorous
and facile dramatists
of such things.

I sleep, I dream a closed dream,
and find winks of sagacity.
I sleep as though it were a lover
that finds me in the after hours;
or the time before hours.
my being alive, and away,
and stalking the mists.

I sleep in the frayed waltzes
of my own body,
and how (and in) the wind
in rituals, in nostalgia and
closure is talked about.
But there is nothing to it.