Poems wither on the Mind. Try not to fret.
So many glockenspiels, alive in our hybrid Brigadoon.
Like merchants and sand *****
spelling your name with a zero
shaped like the Letter “ Because”.
you have no Idea.
But that’s like a Frequency.
You barge into long Ignorance
slowly conquered.
As all the while, the Stars are moving.
And Mystery remains a blush
of Wildfire in a Tamed Bugle
lodged in a Glacier
Of Grace.