Evening is neither leaving
nor becoming, believing day neither
seeing nor night dreaming of deceiving.
–
You seem to only grasp at wrung halves
when shone fat on by the aloe moon,
you run to find stone meaning
–
less than what could be imagined
behind your senseless eyes’ surprise feeling:
reasoning, is not what brings season to pass,
–
it’s a euthanizing clasp, an idea glanced
to stone. not breath anymore but word shards
–
behind the lives of a glass-blower’s cast,
imagination’s sand seer of silent sirens
left like accents clung to the moods in dunes
–
of existence. In this and in that in this, flits
a patient painter who feels the centre soul
as its porous ceiling. He says release
–
perceiving outward what is not within
our umbilical convex, and let us in ourselves be
red less dust undressed by the addressee-irreality,
–
a bee hung weightless in wing beating thought.
–
let us forget doors and their habit of running
away, and summon of ourselves our own
opening to shadeless effluence
–
it is not what’s out there but what is here within
what you touch, and never know to be there,
–
to hear in the flit of blind air, the stare
–
of a century asleep
to the unanswerable conundrum of its heart