for all my exile I am tethered to the hub of my birth.
woven into the very fabric of my tatters.
in every shingle of my solitude resides an igloo
of perpetual enigma… some stoic crucible
crimping the lightning from a lodestone
bathed in Borealis while tempering a penny
for your thoughts.
to part with it… I need only have words enough
to ask you something that
my heart can burn.

like a lamp in a ghost owls’ eye;
perched on an olive branch -
from an isle of man
in some remote sea of you
where doves trim the verge
by starlight…

should the moon
be full of dark -
for all my
Valentines

She keeps eating the lights. I watch how she gnaws on the bones of fire
without utensils. how her maw clamps a lamp with ravenous aplomb.
She keeps eating the lights and i can’t see the rest of her hunger.
Perhaps this shy Golem wears a cloak?

She has upended the Sun.
Trumpet mute fiercely in the gale of her silent scream.
she keeps eating the lights.
a claw made of sterling glimmer lashes out
from underneath the turbulence
of a Woman.

She keeps eating the lights
because dark matters
apply.

all night.

how merry the weathered stones, how jaunty with vigorous erosion, exposing-
clockless epochs of perfect zen. all shipwrecked in the intricate glamor
of having all the facts and solving none of the riddlesome noise.
just all the beautiful things caste about in the strewn Oblivions
of an impartial Cause.

Our bearings are slight adjustments
in a cavalcade of operas
hopping trains.

mars ready, in my marvelous gong
all day long on a frond of foam
curling in the huddled smoke
of my most oaken throat
some calamity frost on my most costly
Summer.
The Sun is a glum trumpet.
howling at the
Moon.

entangled in the triumph
of The Light.