Moving drawings and their whispers

evolving with a thrust of furtive fingers

staying true to the musk beneath

unfolding brightly on the avenue

as it leads into woods and airfields

recalling ancient nonsense

leaving one dark space to fill.

The secret of

pancakes:

love is a myth

buried beneath syrup

and beneath that

is a terrifying void.

A gentle face

throwing shadows on the brick wall

with soft words

of comfort on a sultry night

Streetlights

pouring their own grace

on pulsing sidewalks

but we scatter to a night wind

Fireflies

gliding across waves of fields

bending across night

leading us to a quiet rest

We waited as long as it took

for the moon to draw

some of the sun’s heat

from the rock,

but it feels like

we won’t be ready

for the next evolutionary

step, so backsliding

seems appealing.