wind from across heaven’s white, unerring breast,
rustling weeping trees , as though between two mirrors-
the rolling green under your bare feet—
Sisyphus gets predictability, at the very least.
but what sand sticks to the feet of we lesser mortals?
the up and down and lilting violins play.
should we count in years?
should we stop there, satisfied?
at a dreadful, imperfect integer?
under this same sun,
forgive this penitent beggar
with kind words
and the promise of sleep.
stand out in the rain-
keeping the light glow of aquamarine pupils
sweet amber dryad,
where futility lies.
lest Anteros’ phoenix
feign its own death
and keep inviting you to baseball games
lest you, irrational,
find yourself staring from the couch
to the ceiling.
As though all the light of your soul
came bleeding through your mouth
because of thoughtful midsummer presents~
in tomorrow lies a different perspective.
the waxen paper of today
burns brightly to light sleep’s route.
brightly and without hesitation
should your love endure, small one,
the starving oxen plowing endless wheat.
embrace, lonely pink flower,
the coquettish wind
before it is gone again into twitching, hateful plains.
remember the smiles of those you love.
these are more important
than the strange, cool breezes
that accompany them.