crumpled up

bed blankets of time

stretched out as hours


by dawn or dusk or black sky sleep

I cannot be the monk

his face disappearing


because it is all terminal

yet dilution hems the want

with the expectations of others and the honor

of perception

which god demands this night-scape?

in the hills purple and dusty blue

pines grow together over cinnamon

and cones

and armless spindles forcing the eye

upward for an anchor

the swish of floating whispers speak

volumes of everything we haven't said


autumn and I would talk all night

blotting the dream path

unaware of the moon perhaps

that is what aloneness is for