Those words that come when I’m half fading
will never be taken down. Soon the eyes
filter away infrared and the green spectrum
exchanged for characters.
Like first real sleep in a hundred days
those dreams can blind you. A color teevee
a hovering off-white clarity soon gives way
the taste of paradox
still fresh when I wake. Then, my own tell-all to myself
roams a noisy head. I toil in the holy vineyard.
I sing in a secret place and wait for rumbles
prequels to quietness.
Lo my dry land, dusty forks in all the roads
around here neither choice appealing, both
directions drop lower to diminished rivers running
backwards in the New Madrid fashion.
Sure enough here at Dragonfly it’s too far from
the coronations, from Scone where patterns
happen only in the big rise-and-fall of things.
But not in the teeming simple face of
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