On some distant horizon, Or the white clouds of my dreams, You passed by me, Wrapped like stars. The whole forest was still; the moon…
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Last December looked like this too. Snow fell underneath the streetlights, Negative noise. The snow on the ground made the night look brighter than it…
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A sliver above and interlude of Heaven— A sound from beyond memory mourns out loud in the dark and silver-storming night.
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For Analog— I wrote for miles until there were no voices. The silence was broken by echoes from above, Spilling through stained glass clouds.
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Goldenrod air spirals and drifts between us, Winding itself lazily around the stems of ironweed and Indian paintbrushes and tiny English daisies I slid in…