The common blow fly, the
Adults, feeding off nectar and
Animal carcasses
All Forensic protozoa
Owing their
Fine structure of mid-gut
Epithelium to an alchemic
Grand Master,
Razing his glass knife
across alabaster and
buffer acetones as
These  larval Celestials
Intone
As gendarmes of Cyrus and
Cassaiopeia vibrating
The metronome
Honed with memory,
In my ear
All of it History

Tumble quasar roaring blind, caustic stick etchings of candle wicks
carving starlight into unkind creatures
Clawed, aligned
Rivulets between the rivets, precession,
Your star, Our star the finger of another constellation
Advising wayward comets to deflection
I watch tadpoles in the pool
Swim a spherical galaxy
Sun and the earth and the moon alive
Deciding
That gravity is company

The sing song of a child
Aghast face making
Wretch, guard, gild, hone, smelt, style
The seasons snapping our backs, wild

A love affair with God
Bodies old as cast wax
Stuffed with junipers, natron
The future I regret; my past I laud

And then it broke, the world
Into sunlight and clover leaves
It was all just sounds anyway
Nothing gravity could ever keep

Minstrels were the first to sing
And orange hues deconstruct Spring
Sentences are wrung of time
Wish I’d kept the promises of mine

Dilemma, the cerebral antebellum
The wrist flicked rhythm of the swamps
And the candlelit manors
Perched as tethered yachts atop the rim
Between twilight and dawn, awaiting the archetypal,
Cantilevered, alabaster shadows
Reckoning hatred with nature and burning the hallowed.  
Guests siphon pictures and survivors win registry
As History forgets to tell the sun and moon
Of their responsibility

We wish for words to work with us
to enter and leave as we believe all religioins are
And touch and taste are never disappointed
and the weather is always October

I Love for love to liven the colors of conversations to
bright red and crinkling silver
and tomes of poetry are hand delivered to the bored.  
Toys are no longer just for children
and everyone prefers candlelight to cinema
and Time finally admits its accompliceship to God.  

I weather words well for a kettle *** rung with flavored tongue.

Hey, Malaise.  
Perhaps a comfortable walk?  
A conversive stroll tolling my attention;
a religion, aren’t i?