SHE SWIMS IN NEBULAS OF THOUGHT

November came & went like a frail

glint of nothing, strange the days skip

by like stones, when a fleck of light
left pools in the corner.  A bit of gold
drips from the window (still ajar) & she
is lost in the laundry w/ nothing to do…
The wise once had-Gathered along the
shore, the timelessness in each moment,

asleep as the grains of wheat that lift

shimmering in the moon that traps   

a rabbit.  The earth, a blundering goon

lurches from the wheels of a rickshaw,

or sinks in the snow I’d once forgot… 

She swims in nebulas of Thought, the ebb

& flow of each closed-circuit opens to

a light gathered there, at the cusp of pres-

ence.  Days cavernous (as time itself) seem

but silver threads that slip from my

hand, in the distance.  I leave this place,

a stranger in the surf, churning out quest-

ions that sizzle, in a cell of gossamer  

cloud some local-god had set aflame...  

Behind, I watch the blue move in spirals

she finds in gyrations, before our minds

arise.  Predating the concept of time,

or semblance, yet a kernel of Possibility… 

She now dips under, as currents siphon

through (her fingers) & she understands. 

The migrations ever supporting us, the

entropies that threaten our dusks, a deep

fiend lacking any true-will, but the tend-

ency for harm, was nothing but a wisp

of flame, a stone drowning in the Ocean…