Blue drifts
growing outside the window,
castles pure and ancient
holding memory like a song

Sparkling seasons simmer inside me,
stories unfurl with my breath,
fogging the glass

I stand on the other side of cold
and for a moment,
my eyes see my eyes seeing-
my reflection in frost

I am time,
held in spilling light
over snow

… and I return
to some place
that’s somewhere else,
like the yellow dust from 1974
which I have some idea
I remember-
shortly before
my parents took me to see ‘Jaws’
and I was five years old

I have the same feeling
of inappropriate excitement
and I wonder if they recognized
what I know now,
how things get ruined
when one talks too much
or doesn’t think
or tries too hard

… and I return
to some place
that’s always grey
that will always be-
even if buried
beneath teapots and exuberance
and I wonder
if I’ll find anyone else
as I shuffle in dust

With the grace of a train whistle,
he blew through
my station.

There was no schedule.
I never left the platform.

My dreams of flight
drifted on smoke
far, far away.

It was like being part
of a pair of birds,
one of two,
mated,
matching glide for glide
along cool currents
in a blazing sky.

It was quiet
like a breath
that sounds giant
only in your own ears.

Hunting down a tune
through halls not quite dark,
but long and narrow-
like walking into a straw-
anyone could see
I was bared

looking for melodious moonlight

There was no harmony of touch,
only a soft drumming
like maybe my blood
wanting to move
toward freedom