the branch that left the tree , returned as an ax .

quickly the fire truck
jumps from its station
clamoring into traffic
disrupting its flow
like a boulder sat in water
the cars swerve and collect
on the side of the road
only to soon return to their stream
the casual chaos continues
and I wonder what it’s like
to be able to go about routine
when tragedy is occurring
just up the river

Could've sworn I saw a light
Buzzing through the pines
On the hillside
Gazing down at me
Like a singular eye of god
Peeking through reality
Wondering what's become
Of it's creation

Opening myself up
That same light protruding
Nearly went blind
And felt strangely vacant
Like that divine intervention
I prayed for by candlelight
Finally extended its hand
But retreated last second

Saw that shine again
This time in the eyes
Of a deer by the lake
Couldn't stand the scrutiny
Quietly shuffled my fingers
To the trigger of my gun
Aimed best I could
Tarnishing the light for good

Blue marble,
lifeless eye.
Rotten cherry scented earth.

Nuisances poking up,
being pulled out -
composted for new dirt.

Don't you go getting sedimental on me.
Grains of insignificance ingratiating themselves in want of new life.

Rotten blueberry orb.
Fermented fungal stink.
A world in full decay.
Eyes that cannot blink.

And it was there I said I'd meet you.
Under the overpass, your eyes grasping for new ways to say I told you so. And that smokestack heart of mine piled up a few more miles of the most beautiful memories that could fit into my nap sack before the bus left:

When you remind me I'm lip-synching on our car rides to nowhere which is everywhere with you and how I hate telling you I'm wrong.

That smile- and how it wraps around my lips when I try and refuse that lighthouse from ushering me home.

The echoes your laughter makes across the empty dining room and how intentional you spin this sound so I can hear it from the bedroom.

Your left temple- tabernacle and all- leaning against the smoke. Every night.  Not afraid of the fire.

And before I leave you remember that these trips are every bit as permanent as they are temporary. You tell me to hurry home and I remind you that I always am with you. You smile. The Sun screams, raising its voice across your face as we depart and you've never been as beautiful as when you said

~
Who can circumnavigate Avalon's depository and the palpable swoop down toward earthier terrain?

Yet, here I am.

Where is your gravity taking me, Kahn?

This building is an invitation, and I am humbled in this sense of arrival. The books are stored away from the light. So a man with a book goes to the light, the serenity of light.

And therein lies the hidden meaning.

But you won't let it become just a building; you want it to remain much a ruin; it's all somehow sinister in its celebration.

Occasional distraction is as important in reading as concentration.

And I'm reading between the lines in a corner carrel, looking out at academic crop circles; I grapple with each texture: it's this combination of imposing austerity and weathered familiarity that you seize upon to make your current landscape hospitable.

This building is an instrument, creates a sound in my head akin to music; and this music remains a glowing source of solitude, all driven by a desire to be hidden but sought after—a celebration of all things lost and unnamed.

Here I find closure by opening a book.
~

Life's fleeting moments
experiences we hold dear,
but never truly own.