From the cloud



The Moon as


…        map of the Earth

The moon as iris

in a milky eye of cloud

The moon as smoke

in collapsing cloudsong

The moon as playful child

winking at the adult densities

The moon shedding skin

in fountains of ice

The moon behind a craggy mountain peak

which becomes the shattered trunk of a tree

Moon gone but still there

the moon I carry on my shoulder

still a worthy destination

for a lifetime flying by





Dream offerings


From a distant shoulder

a golden arm stretches

a golden hand offering

a golden bowl.  I accept

the bowl filled with ashes

The ashes turn into water

into which I press my fingers

and touch my lips

Pass the bowl, a golden whirl

a windmill pane of light

Pass the bowl to a hand

not of your choosing





The captain calls for more speed


Amid a crowd of clouds, there’s always

one who captures more light

as if a horizon itself, something

of promise bending the rays

of the hidden sun into a crown

ringed by darker clouds which are

only darker in contrast

become thorns weeping

in the judgment of the ground

what the level eye calls

the true horizon, only true

because it can never be reached

receding with the clouds

shifting into the pattern of a ship,

someone tied to the mast

perhaps shouting into the wind.






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