Bookended
/crumpled up
bed blankets of time
stretched out as hours
bookended
by dawn or dusk or black sky sleep
I cannot be the monk
his face disappearing
unscathed
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
aloud
autumn and I would talk all night
blotting the dream path
unaware of the moon perhaps
that is what aloneness is for