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it's written in the lay of the land

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where time and space meet

cellular memory

just over the horizon

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The hour of the slowest clock

I call night awake/against the white morning walk
the crescent ebbing/the bell of a cup
steeped in a dark mountain blend/
kakis clinging barren branches/the grasp poised
to rapture//sinister lunula luminous
prizing sight eye from eye rendered/

through the looking glass

cracks in the space/time fabric

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Sky, forlorn, stares down

Sky, forlorn, stares down
Unable to secure roots
Earth, mournful, eyes heights
Unable to scale the clouds
Between salvation and damnation
Dust from footsteps rises, falls

the writing on the wall

the fabric of imaginary spaces

the last look at a man who is no longer there

he was no longer standing where he had been standing
when I last turned to see him there looking, turning
to look off into the distance at the flocks slowly wheeling
returning to a distant instinctual nurturing.

I hadn’t seen him in ages, aging in the process,
no longer focused, the curse of senescence
just trying to hold on, holding disparate pieces,
unable to see beyond the visual axis,

as he lie there he opened his eyes, looked into mine,
closed them and died. no one saw his eyes look into mine,
the last look at a man who is no longer there,
the last look of a man who is no longer here…

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come back soon!

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