Where solid ground joins the night,
it shares in the solitude
to complete the passage of light.
The full moon was looming
to translate the darkness
into something immutable.
Tracks and terrain,
the lightning framed by trees,
bright flares on the road to nowhere.
A charred skin,
the strange shapes that were foreign,
are floating to find the ocean bottom.
The places you once were,
seen from above sacred remnants left there.
Scorched tones over all the miles it would clear,
lifted from predictable confines.
A timbre to allign you with something larger,
poised to witness
the first light on the dark outlines,
the shadow of a crater
the expectant shoreline.
From the deep, an utterance
A breath that broke the wave with foam
The OM that shook the universe
The warming of molten lava
driving the ages out of forgetting.
The momentum meets you like an idea,
like thoughts beyond the last inlet
that hit the rocks before disappearing.
Following sounds down to the edge of pages.
Translucent white oceans
bright and turning over
the foam-shimmered stars piercing
the sea flowing ink from the well.
Resuming its journey,
like wayward lovers
who meet in eternity.
Overlapping in colors
disguised as one merging
memory of a setting sun.
Taste the salt on your tongue.
So close and yet you have not begun
to touch the wind and feel the flow
of feathers falling like embers from the unseen
that will not disclose or decipher the meaning,
for nature is both separation and cohesion.
The moth realizes it’s drowning
in the wax of indecision.
Is this what it means to be safe?
To frantically flutter
until surrendering to exhaustion?
To whatever it is you write
in the blind light of the flame
that sees you through the night?
You are led through narrow passages.
In ancient quarters and in darkened corners,
there’s a seductive presence.
Features are revealed in a moment’s matchlight,
smoke lingering in neon effervescence.
What is left besides cigarette ends
in the evening arabesque?
The isolated design of these markings,
words at the end of an invitation
crossroad within a chapter abandoned.
How long can a spark linger?
A wallowing flicker
to follow footsteps into ash?
The story of fire spread over land,
kindling the torches
passed from hand to hand.
The wind whispers softly past
the ragged shapes in the swirling sand.
Born of freedom
Born of vagrancy
Born into customary migrations
of colorful veils
giving birth to dances
of moonlight on barren lava fields.
Once this time has lapsed into the creation of new land
you’ll find these tracks molded into the black
are the only impressions that last
of a flow that both holds and alters everything.