Focusing on a point in-between
all the moments that came and will be.
A blank canvass
for the transparent vision
that if not for these columns
would be a decline into confusion.
A pondering of illuminated strands
stretched and torn
where hobbies are born out of the illusion
of sewing them back together.
A life picked apart.
A progression that picks up art
as it goes
until the last breath poses the question,
“What is left and what is worth bringing?”
For a collector of scenes,
of how they thread themselves into dreams,
like a canvass transparency
so that light can filter through in words,
a luminescent dial pointed towards this possibility.
With spasms of inspiration,
like an electric current,
climbing the spine.
A direct circuit
that feeds into the divine,
shines like a beacon’s light
across the night to suspend time,
like a bridge that connects no land.
The sun returns to fill in the cracks
between the cold and the blanket.
You feel eternity in the warmth alone,
when prone to consider
the thin veil between us.
Most days you lay hidden in variable weather.
So seeking diversion elsewhere,
you try to forget her.
Like a divergent thought
like shadow on the open spaces
or skin on the pillows of cloud,
a canvass, transparent
passing without a sound.
Another curve suddenly,
with no segway
(distant railroad whistles)
Only the lonely longing
that is evident in a melancholy heart
bound to an excess of feeling.
Warming to a kind of spontaneous animation,
the dancing flames,
the wrist that weaves its keening
into addresses and names.
It is stamped with a charred scent,
post cards from a starter fire
with a burnt edge and a piece of paper.
Drifting up with sparks of insight,
dancing flecks moving aimless
into the dark of the night.
Fireflies in oblivion
you could almost grasp
as the last gasp of the hearth
crackles for all it is worth
in an amphitheater of shadows.