Bit #2

I live in high tree clouds—
wander through storm gravestones
and fall—the unsuspecting man—
dancing the prisms of each door event
waiting for winter to end.

Bit #1

Bit #1

I’ve seen myself in many mirrors—
trombone movements across
another mall’s shopping dance floor—
or tight in five o’clock—tight in shaving
away the night’s truth for
the morning’s glorious sun of promise.

Always that shadow lengthens—the horizon of my eyes falling into
the last pools of light dancing away in the spinning embrace of a moment.

Destination 5

Time is the leaning tower.
Lengthening shadows.

A word—from falling out of a conversation to
history discovering that word’s discarded shell
against a failed friendship/the silence of death
in the deafening bravado and thunder of war.

Time is stretched and released/stretched and released.
Hand between atoms. Hair sliding into the valleys of a pillow.

Costumes and masks. Purpose for clouds/horizon.
Sidewalks in cities when summer is the only gravity
that exists between sunset and sunrise. The sound
of emotion snagged on window-sills and fridge doors.

Time is the vanishing point where roads
and railway tracks become mystery/situation
between two non-existent/incomprehensible points.