At Twilight . . .

At twilight . . .

I slip through the wormhole –
across the rainbow –
this half-visible coloured torus.

I, walk the two-manifold-disc;
shape-shifter, shifting from
substance to non-matter, beyond

the wormhole, beyond the horizon’s
rim-thin reels of crimson,

as the sun with a jealous eye
kills the ageing night.

I,
shape-shifter, shifting this
twisted tale of twilight –
this virgin vortex, beyond

blue rocks that kiss in doom, beyond
winged-ram-fleece, beyond
climes, where music thrills from strings stretched
from the sun –

The music of the Shining City,
weaned on the winding wish of the whirlwind . . .