Golden dregs…

{no one writing | the obituaries of | grasshoppers or | mayflies}

You put my body down | We have called to the stones for so long, and now they have come to us

Gross and gorgeous | I | roi soleil | across a room like a | sea | The sunken | galleons of my thoughts | drip and spew pearls as | they are salvaged | This is my Levée, you may attend, only | be quiet and | suitably | blinded | as I | rise

Do you remember when | waist-deep in ocean waves | we held each other, and the Pacific | urged us up and | down | so we | stood on tip-toes, and had no | thought of the snow?

Dawn’s lapdogs

Yes, unfathomable…

I can’t count the paths I took to get away from here | So how is it | I am back?

We put our | threads of | electrical | diamond fuss | between | stone |     and |     stone

{cobweb in the frost, February 2009}

Exiled to the past, and buried in those graves of words | which, for so long, had no need of sense | the childish legionaries climb out | and hand to me their stage-set stones | vouching for their innocence

{rifts of time between | moment |     and |     moment || grief of ego, thoughts of you in swirling snow}

from the series hypergrammar (open-ended, 2012–present)