Sometimes, another's steps are 
Washed away by rising tides, 
Crisp imprints on shifting sands, 
Cleansed by many broad rolling 
Swathes of wrinkled salt water.

Their steps are in front of yours,
Swept clean moments before yours
Is too absorbed in frothy
Remnants of sweeping ocean,
Subtle signs of connection

Unified by erasure.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a   poem. This is not a     poem. This is not a
                Poem. This is not a.                       Poem.

I look out of my window
And see clouds lightly
prickled by antenna
And gently swaying leaves.
But really,
I see nothing at all.

This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This is not a poem. This

When sun's breath fires
  wire frame.
Displayed behind
  flat sparkling gravity.
Moon's light casts
  dark mist over murky waters.
Ushering the ark
  gliding over crescent waves:
On raging towers of indignant froth
  not serene silk smooth vast ocean.
    It reaches the dove, carrying branch;
     Holding it aloft as it is
      The     Saint    of the sentence.

My thoughts are crabbed and sallow,
My tears like vinegar,
Or the bitter blinking yellow
Of an acetic star.

Tonight the caustic wind, love,
Gossips late and soon,
And I wear the wry-faced pucker of
The sour lemon moon.

While like an early summer plum,
Puny, green, and ****,
Droops upon its wizened stem
My lean, unripened heart.

A shatter of glitter
Breaks over her eyes
When she looks in the mirror:

Swathes of pink
Speckled by silver circles
Matched by the anxious glittering
Of the waterfall
That is her earrings.

It's her last glance
To hold the spectre
Of herself
Until she explodes
With the other girls;
Prim and dainty.

the moon has died in a poem
overused and forlorn
its avatar is rising
in blazig pixels and scorn

we are at this threshold
one foot in the moon
the subtelty of dying will be
presented on Zoom

Godot isn't coming but
I am waiting too

Has your soul ever been displayed,
Framed by thick wooden-glazed borders,
and set up in the gallery of another's life?

Can you say the painting of you
Beams with joy through heavy clouds,
Sliced by sharp shards of glass-like light?

If not, may you then brush-up yourself,
Quick blots of pink on sunken cheeks,
Lighten the shade under each eye?

Or will you draw the curtain,
Blind me to me, and you to you,
Pinch out the last flicker of fight?

I float in the painting of my life,
Dazzled in drying plumes of
Opulent colour. Ahead, the black
Of not yet whispers to my canvas.

Can sweeping moths settle,
Sink neatly, swathed by shadow
Onto lightly curling leaf.

On white fluorescent light
They are blinded, and
Are spun in carousel circles.

My light blinds me too,
Keeps my eyes spinning
In carousel circles.