a crust of bread resting in the rustic coma of the breakfast nook.
butter on a plate... chastening the sun with it's mule yellow-
and gravy on your toast because
breakfast.

the window beside -
framing elsewhere, condensing the whole milk
into a colorful speck.
as you wander off into the morning
before coffee... with a mouthful
of toast.

and a host of jewelry... made of sleepy.

without a doubt
we sprout wings in the still calm
and catch the draft in a sleeping cyclone -
ascend and descend alone.
always in the Circus
of our Misadventures.
always in the corner
of our Sun.

how brilliant we would be if the light were out.

he's at the museum. stark pageantry bathing in halcyon.
he spies a frame and dismembers the calligraphy
of color wheels and myocardial infarction.
he smiles at Renoir.

he can not advance. too many white walls
with square holes. better to ponder them
than hurry off...to contemplate the space
and the unspeakable sum
of the arts.

your melodies betray you as a virtuous enigma.
i swoon to your baritone authenticity.
we are well met, and the sky has shunned the thunderclap
to display the sun, when you are near me.

suspended in the ashen gloom of our rainbows
murked by the sundering of sunlight
by way of black comets and sad stones.
a withering of moon where you often live
till you stop doing that.

sleeping near the river of our quaint desires
all around the throng of invisible wings and tepid prayers.
we gather to the nexus of our fussy razorblades
and cleave a sliver of dust...
happy to have something
we can't even
see.

the rain is bald headed and mangled.
you can almost tease a feather from an iron snowflake
but your mondays have all the time in the world
to be mondays.

you chipped a nail on a crucifixion.
but keep your balloons in your symphony.
i see you walking with a cane in heaven
just for fun.

heaving stones at the sun
all the while quarantined from the average atom
of happiness... more of a swollen thing
in the hemisphere of dark whimsies.
a child of an unjust god.
sleeping on the window sill
with the silver moon blanket
of moonbeams.

tender mercies have no mockery
and i gather you have soul enough
to endure.