Monday, August 29, 2011

a storm that's always threatening,

among the orbits of their eyes                                                                                    
stolen dreams and wrinkled stories                                                                               
line the waves and valleys                                                                                            
they cross.  and their words were                                                                                    
echoes of things they'd never seen,                                                                                   
assembled fragments of a world made                                                                                
from magazines, a collage they put together                                                                         
telepathically, in plain site of alligators                                                                            
and moths beating their tails and wings                                                                                
against the paper walls that keep them                                                                                 
bathed in tepid light from day to night
amd unseen.
                  just wild mazes,                                                                  
be lost in-                                                                                                                                                                                            
a mirror's stretched above the din of the ocean's                                                                  
crash, and catches the light in droves about its silver-rimmed glance...                                  
you seem to gleam yourself in half-spoken sentences,                                                        
in instants of selflessness,                                                                                            
a sandy beach scattered with years,                                                                              
and around the ocean lies your deep breath,                                                                        
one after another, sign of life, the maker your hands                                                      
the shape of the fingers trees resembles, it
speaks, with all the force of tides, with
the weight of skies and sky-scattered stars and
wavy lines.  It rides
a stiff breeze,
til the oceans end,
and time descends the plateaux of thoughtful
rhymes.  My heart skips
a beat.  It's a forest of glimmers,
of half-eaten leaves and the light they've loved,
of the lingering scent of fur brushed by a treetrunk's
stolid watch through the dampness of the morning.                                      

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