July 2017

a drop
of water ripples
through wine

mussel bound
my beard to the rock
of doubt

slivered moon
my lips come to grips
with wordlessness

frost-born day
time now to hear
the soundless

imagine this
see it comes to you
my sacred tree

burial mound
another myth lives up 
to its name

given voice 
my poem respawns
as vapour

between you
and the you I am
the sound of

birth-gasp
my head passes through
the sweater

sepia-stained
I pitch my tent
in the past

in the void
of non-sense
— nonsense

when time was new
and space a waking dream
the verb to be is

in congress
with the ineffable
these words too

words writhe
to the serpentine grace
of my pen

this! this!
nothing of night
not known

so much depends
upon fireworks
in the fog
of war

death-dealt
night pierces
the anima heart

the other self
slipped by a shadow
you in I

the dream-time
darkness envelops
all the same