A trickling light through a keyhole
Spilt, like milk, from the mouth of the moon.
A strange beauty to be drunk by an expanding iris.
Skin in dust that once resembled hands that held each other,
Gentle on the wings of wind float in living space.
Stars are notes on sheets of reversal film,
And an outer space orchestra composes with thundercloud trumpets.
A drifting piano man whistles over troubled treetops.
Comets hum as motors do, with bold arc over mellow meadows.
Warning signs take seats behind the nosebleeds as lights fly by
And we stare through reflections of our faces in a window.
Iron core dreams that chain life to the surface
In bizarre fashion spin around themselves with self-contentment.
Draw lampshades and sunshades with a pencil that, erased,
Resembles life alone, akin to time rewound, white when all else goes.
For every fingerprint, an opposite.
For every fire, a start.
Stylized goodbyes that are compensated for with a swansong.
Squeeze a final round as King Hamlet’s actor takes his bow.
Looks like the lost boy lives through his death at curtains close.
Such beauty in the irony of summertime and youth,
So that when either ends we find ourselves still standing on a stage
With tape-marked ex’s that leave ghostly prints on worn out hardwood.
But a change in the air.
Colder light through an unlocked door we still find ourselves hesitant to open.
Still, like puddle water and a heart in thoughtless moments.
Let’s collect the dust and use the curse of the witches brew
To reanimate the hands that held each other, and clasp them again.
This monster we created, oh lord, call it love.
It’s a beast in the light of the keyhole,
Where a whisper slips through with the moonbeam
And seems to wish luck to those who would tamper
With the balance of the universe.
But that whisper is a shout from the far side of the earth,
Out of the mouth of raging water and untamed thought.
Don’t you dare open the door now.
I fear letting in a gust of something raw and unmatched.
Some new magical craft born from dirty roads and a smoking grate.
The skyscraper that tore a hole in the firmament.
An angel fell right through before god had sewn it up.
Slow motion resistance turns to failed refrain,
And now the reveal.
That an apt pupil is one I get lost within.
One through which I can reach beyond the farthest corners of dense reality;
On towards musical twilights where a persistent moon gapes at fallen angels.