.

A foggy sepulchre

Stands shyly,
.
Not knowing her own beauty,
The evening
Fertile with the
Fluorescent light’s
Vibrations, matrimony
.
Of whim benefitting full,
Complacent
.
In her breast and womb
Knowing new stars.

In his

General course of things,
.
A young man
Might look up and need just
A little light,
.
For no darker
Is his
Form
.
Of judgment, and in
His mind
.
Lie wreaths
Of the splendor, lie
That in whose absence
You might be inclined to complain.

I was on a natural plane,

It wasn’t like it was just me,
.
The coats of darjeeling sat there
In their nests on the trees.

I wanted to provide joy to someone,

Somewhere, along the way,
.
This joy is leaking in me
Like a bottle plugged,
.
And the first thing I see when I look out my window
Is seven years of lost love,
.
Of love stabbed,
Grown cold,
.
When it could have been fields and fields of beauty.
.
I had something to show you, world.

Something

Was destroyed
In this life,
.
Detonated from the middle
And
We wriggle out
As
.
Glass drops
On a sedan’s hood.

The jail cells,

With their mighty cacophony of swords,
Ignite the setting sun,
The
.
Uniformed man standing like wars do,
And
.
You’re in the diner
.
Coaxing the sugar and cream.

It comes at the middle of a day,

It’s the
Garden and you’ve already seen it,
.
When
Happy are those
Who look at
What
They want to
Look at
.
When
Nothing exists,
Within or without the self.

From the

Wet leaves,
.
Purple and
Yellow,
.
Hidden
On the railroad track which is
Raised so far up,
.
Galvanizes
Purple sunshine,
Streamed
.
Through the TV’s
Of electricians,
Plumbers
And tow truck
.
Drivers, and
These see me and kill me,
.
Through denim
Light years of delayed dinners.

Stark naked

I stand,
Before the tree.
.
Someone once said
That the trees
Were
‘Petrified,’
But
.
I view them
More as being
.
Angry,
.
For
It is they
Who are honest,
.
It is they
Who have cast a shadow
Of guileless armament
To stave off
The coming flood,
To smile back with eyes
Like shadows
Phosphorescent
And dripping with light switches
Of decaying malady.

For if you’re suspended in a moment

Of what for the mighty is ecstasy,
And, in this moment, you lose yourself,
.
Crouched for the killing of the great miscellany,
The nativity scene
In which you just look, don’t touch,
.
You just observe
What for time immemorial
Has been the object of your intrigue, its desecration.