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 . . .

There she stands . . .

There she stands,
Queen of my dreams –
her eyes –
twin lighthouses for
my storm-tossed soul . . .

Her tresses flirt
with the wayward wind –
coaxed air makes a lair in her hair . . .

I will watch the moon leave its hiding,
I will watch as nighttime falls,
I will watch her heart and read therein,

The beauty of it all . . .

Here, I stand,
washed by her eye’s pool,
here, I bow – captured – a slave,
not conquered by a sword – but a look.

Clasp the roaming wind . . .

Clasp the roaming wind, bend
its sinews to the east; it is not
its destiny to
sip the sop of Sisyphus . . .

Clasp the wind –
tease its veins . . . its flow,
towards the hearth where
the embers fail.

Ferry the cumulus;
wind-hinged vats of black milk –
storm cloud-blobs, which beat
their drip-drip-drip;

drops distilled from ashes
of a cremated creed . . .

And the wind goads the clouds
to balsam,

to knead,

immortal plumes from the ashes . . .