Memories are dim –
white clouds on the outside.
I’m waiting for dark,
for gray or black or that sheet of sky where stars wink through holes
in cut fabric.
The Sullen One, the Dreamer, the Spectacle, the Net-Caster –
I am alone in myself without drift or muse
Words on the horizon.
Is there a miracle invocation to be made?
Inspiration could be
a ghost from my past, or a spirit to prompt dreams
of lampposts in winter,
of burning oils and incense and
a poem without rhythm or reason
that flows like the ocean and whispers like the salt.
A misguided drum.
And so, into the abyss, slowly,
I go descending
With my dreams scattered among nightmares,
the cutting edge of joy on my wrist;
hungry for life and death and the deepness of feeling.
So we are the painters, the artists, the diplomatic chief designers for our own lives, deaths and in betweens.
Snow falls and everything is soft and clean again.