you are walking in a stream of absolute strangers
woolgathering in cerebral catacombs with faraway eyes
as your shadow strides behind you
as you face the sun with a blank face…
Time dawdles instantaneously.
every moment compressed into a -
slow expanse of happenings
all around you at the center of nothing
as you stroll
cutting through the park
of your epiphanies.

My lute has found a voice
made of porcelain
and the risible rattle
of dry leaves.
I have only one note.
But my lunacy resounds.
With only two hands
I grasp; dropping -
the Sun…

But I keep the Moon
for an Eclipse
when I want
one.

like an amateur Magician
at a Mirror,
over a
Sink.

i shave a Dove
in my sleeve -
for the
wings.

that I weave
for lucid
Sleep.

[ I think }