A most appealing handful
of images were spread
like seed across a field
so hungry and willing
to open…
but mirages can happen
even in temperate climes,
with promises and secrets
both squandered
when weeds are ignored.

Stay a little longer;
no need to give up the field
so fertile and willing…
but stop casting a line to leaving winds.

Without a bowl,
it’s only hands
(cupped together)
trying a steady reach;
with incessant cracking,
there’s no holding on
for long.

Impossibly dense,
toss some shade
before the light turns;
flipping off
imagined trials
while revving
nowhere.

A movement drawn
between planes
of light and music,
where touch
is incendiary
and thought
secondary.

Rolling clouds, over sun,
over hills and through my window
like a slap in the face
dispelling the dark inside-

it is difficult
holding onto righteous pity
in the face of sun.