storm of leaves,

clean outa fresh allegory, it seems.
sometimes i pause en path and
wonder- did i jump ship too late?

life has become an after-hours
museum:  stop, stare and
saunter on to the next scene.

a moving statue among mummies.


ii.

the four emptied alcoves surround her.  she waits.

"the pollen grain enters invisible"

wheat stalks annotate such wind: aaahhhh, yeeeeessss.

"like body, wholly body, fluttering its empty sleeves"

awakened by candle wax, he left her.


iii.

i cant think of anything else to say.
let's just walk awhile.
holler when you spot a fox.

i got hands in my pockets.

clock
temple
dice
bridge
lamp
well
map

map

map

water flows here softly.

Osir green,
red Magdalena never ran
from your tomb...

there, her dove.
your rainbow.

brother seth sits,
weeping- for joy!

though his humwawa
  is but scattered wind-

bread is broken.

ceiling fan

atmosphere

eyelashes
.


"i think this, and this and this," he said.
but it's sleep (feared even) he's really after.

that darkness.  what does it mean?
ask starry questions and watch the quiet
vanish.

clueless and dull, the sun sets again.

i've the company of clouds.
i've a dark sea without truth.

without any doubt.

an old pirate
once told me about
a typhoon from hell
and a rowboat to china.

about how he
almost crapped his
pants that time.

and telling me this,
he grinned from
ear
to
ear.

"i am not god," says the
moon, "but the lingering taste
of her lips."

even her Glance might suffice
to set us in our orbits, i think.

the moon knows this:
she tastes whom she embraces.

flip side of
futile currency:
joy.

asking questions,
hoping for intervention.

beauty, he thinks:
a stone egg hatching.
the sky giving birth.
rain from a clear sky.

a stick thrown in a pond-
waveless.