Recall through the face at the door

that saturday morning one solid blank

grey window, scrubbed slab

beyond, several feet and more

laid the catapult, a pointed edge

from a distant acre fed, wind-side.

The concentric pattern in velvet

curtain brushed my hand as I reached

to turn and swing, oiled lock routine

the knives of cold the comfort

between the welcome and rain

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Returning to my hotel room

the way arrayed with artless dust

settling at my wood-chewed seat

crafting a plan to hatch this eve

feeding the scar of cream curtain.

The depth of outside shatters within

voices ring out in stuck symmetry

the gramophone and a fiend's cackle

this draught declines my fervent plea

a brush so worn as to paint me cold.
 

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Errant in the dark, the telltale signs

we saw catapult us fifteen miles

through gulley and field

uproot and cascade, we now deem

a captured eye, a wind-blown scene,

so fresh, so free for all, and yet...

hot-bladed too, a line of fire

in this frenzied, war-torn age

a searing divide, a map, a point

as plain and unbroken as

you, my rock, my hallowed place

here be...

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I slip through
some would make it a pain
to see
all that would wash
against diamond lines
---their derision

I thought
that you'd make
flutterings
of a restless mind
no less grand
than your own scenery

Depths not yet plumbed
are better left a hollow square
the transparent is you
and I glide through the nothing
dreading the wall
...........................................

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A sign that is soaked in war, unheeded
Time once more will bring fuel for fire
Houses at home desert those as background
Holes now empty, listless as days

Again they will cry as the tales stay the same
Clues left scattered they skimmed high over
Truth scarce in a land of no simplicity
They ask, 'What are we going to do?'

True what are they going to do?
When they find paradis...

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