life
distant
  and smudged by impurities

viewed thru aging window

Magic already exists
plain as day
known by another name.
We call it music.

Why did we ever stop writing poetry
To zip by in empty prose?
Prosaic ain’t so!
Oh woes
to the verbose
who cannot communicate pasttheirtoes
glasses tinted money-green and rose
Averted eyes, upturned nose
failing to look
anyone in the eyes
or to the heavens

Fingers up,
grasping at bubbles;

Why do I always
fight for air?

tended
   in dreams    i am flossed at sea
only to be
   muttered and lost
           once upon awakening
un-present and tense