Every last star
ghosts its own holy rapture–
we, a part of, bask.
Behind starry veils,
embers crackle blue and gold–
You were there, dancing.
Dreamed: wine-dark roses
blooming in early winter–
Grief, subject to change.
He understood that to unhook stars
you sometimes had to stand on tall buildings.
Really tall buildings.
Vertigo was reflected back to him, bigtime.
He had searched high and low, mostly low, but he knew his fate waited somewhere between a wrong number and an empty glass. He squeezed his lucky rabbit’s foot before entering.
At childhood’s wild edge,
play as the sacred totem–
No license required.
A house in the woods,
rumors of a shapely witch–
The risk of foreplay.
Who, what, where and when,
stories love lighted windows
at night, plot thickens.
Angels sacrifice
the molten blood of their light
to make still life films.
How reassuring
to know that this scene,
this Martian postcard
of halcyon rupture,
of phoenixes rapturing
in legion,
lives inside of us,
the history
and legacy
of our cells
functioning as projectors
through which eternal dreamstock
engages the audience
of our divinest core.
