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Convince the eye that there are no shadows. 

Draw lines in darkness where they don't exist. 

Mirrors are sisters to lenses. 

Smoke is smoke. 

A distraction. 

We see what we expect to see. 

More and less. 

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16

Patchouli and bergamot down the vertebrae 

Cinnamon and sandalwood across the innominate bones 

Rose and jasmine along the clavicle

Sweet mints at carpus and medial malleolus

What is the anatomy of a memory

A complete skeleton for every kiss

Stacked in the catacombs of each heart

Anointed 

Embalmed

Sacred

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A storytelling of rooks. A siege of bitterns. A piteousness of doves. A lamentation of swans. 

Prehistory woven into limb and sky, nests in our collective imagination. 

Earthbound, we drew them on our walls with ochre and ash, built up a tower of words to reach them.  

Lizards have transcended to the kingdom of heaven and we are all Icarus, falling.  

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Not the sort for jumping, but the ground is coming up either way. 

We all confess. There were Plans. Capital letter plans that were as real in our minds as memories of first kisses and child birth. All of those flung out the windows together. 

All the moments spread out before and after stop and all the adding up falls down like ticker tape and acid rain. 

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13

Precipitous observation of the lack of social progress as evidenced by rhetorical automobile decorations adhering to propaganda, driving home the message, proud of ignorance and hate, propelling it into the future at 65 miles per hour down the rural state highway of my otherwise bucolic life. 

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The morning clings to the grass and my eyelids heavy and damp. 

Moth-eaten glory yellowing time's teeth. 

Webs unraveled and restrung in the corners. 

Harvest moon fingernail slides down the jutting spine of ancient mountains. 

Golden cauldron pours cobalt onto the sky. 

The age of the crone arrives. 

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10

On the heels of wound up

Chasing the tail end of a loop

Sit. 

As long as you drool on cue

Buy peanuts for the gallery zoo

Stay. 

Must have every latest ball thrown

Smarter than the pup you own

Roll over. 

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My broken teeth gnashing at my own back in the dark. What kind of days are these the end of? Gold and glory. Pestilence and plague. Inside each hour they feel the same. Colors have different names and songs have different tunes, but we all see and we all sing. The well shod and the down trod. Hearts race with the joy of love. Tears salt the cheeks of lovers who've loved and lost. Every one of them sleeps, in every age and every city. Every one of them dreams. Every man chasing only himself in the night. 

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8

Summer's tantrum is throwing itself against the metal roofing. 

She's hurling branches around in the yard. 

She doesn't want to go, it isn't time yet, you promised. 

With the top of her voice she protests. 

Slamming the air and rolling. 

Flashes of anger. 

The tears, the tears. 

And then done. 

The cooling and the calm. 

Collecting. 

The wreckage, the broken toys.

Still didn't change the sun. 

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