Here at the end
of the continent
everyday the same
sea and sky elemental
endless blue planes
interrupted only
by a wayward bird
a flash of white
like a gull
lost out in the null
as September wanes
into Autumn's moon
breaking like a spell
casting my shadow
like a sundial
measuring my footprints
away and alone
on these wind(s)wept
bare lonely dunes.

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I recall
her lost smile

like a sketch
I draw from my memory

and those days in the rain
laughing, drops

hitting the creek
slow as a dream

until a shadow
fell across the mirror

brushing her hair
in a dark room

like a honeycomb
of sad bees

and double entendres
two lifetimes ago.

Looking back at the years
through the fog,
sorting the memories
that are real
from the phantoms
that long
for the castle and the throne
that have fallen.

Time ruins our eyes
for each other,
while the moon burns
down the nights around us,
as if attracted to our madness
and spellbound by the dark
- ness that surrounds us,
yet here we remain, apart
and together, alone in a home
for the stone-cold heartless.

A storm is brewing in the east
and a white bird is flying high,
like the shadow of smoke
from the last fires in the moonlight,
lying crossways over the bed
on her belly in dark *******,
whatever she is dreaming
its meaning she keeps to herself.

A crowd has gathered
in the home
of the unknown poet

a house of smoke
he calls it, but the poet
left for another affair

his gallant wife
descends the stairs
and shows no misery

while the guests read
his work sniffing
over their peer glasses

and with no regrets
whatsoever the poet's wife
drives a dagger deep
in her pale breast

as the poet is laughing
and dancing with ******
the guests at the table
place their orders.