like the night,
is never still or silent.
Its maneuvers shadow the palm fan,
quivering like a stray
that ran from underbrush
and into the corners of sight.
A brief foray into the light,
these myriad expressions pressed in parchment,
addressed to willing ears,
descending spiral stairs
to grope without landmarks.
Wandering alone, is that signal
flashing in the distance
enough to guide or provide relief?
Or is it only the heat lightning
of brief enlightening?
what has this to do with redemption?
Words from out of the past,
infused with new imagery
that burst like a capillary
from out of tired wrists.
All education is dying slowly.
worming through sentences,
towards another border
with nothing to declare.
So close to home,
this place will be your undoing.
Stitch by stitch,
this furtive fabric of fingers roaming
over the secrets you kept to yourself,
in nights of torn confetti
bursting from out of dreams.
Words like slow daze shadows
tightrope across tree limbs,
nothing to cling to but much to uncover
in the swaying fabric it follows.
Dreams at their most palpable,
invisible during the day,
now hold silent sway in dark dominion.
Like a fruit that blooms in the last layer of night,
cycles of thought re-emerge
to form just below the surface of an urge
to keep from drowning, words buoyant
in night seemingly endless and without morning.
Osiris in obsidian silences
sizes up another descent.
The pen points below
with words beginning to decay
as they travel downward
and further away from the source.
They have perfected the art of subtle entry.
Transformation and then dissipation beneath the surface
to caress expressions of profound wetness and silence.
Projecting notes over the sheer inevitability of cliffs,
those endless horizons to dream on,
the tranquility of moons on surfaces to gleam on,
to unwind crystalline spools
of ocean jewels
loosened but not grasped,
you choose this place to unravel at last.