There are no letters
	in the dust-filled rooms;
		only ephemeral shadows
	lit by orange slants of sunset
	in which the dust shifts
	and dances like ghosts
	of September fires and
	summer, in swirls.
Turn, face down in worthless dreams roll, tangle with life in cold, liquid thoughts falling into the keen abyss capturing the stony turrets of castles, built of air, tumble restless with the circus of days, bright crimson with honesty, blue skies rolling hills, earth blurring into desolate convictions wrought from the truly contrite heart or not, seize in the brilliant green a handful of turbulent life grapple with inevitable truth or inconsequential lies, beaten paths of excellent grade and utmost epitaph conjure gentle mounds of fleshy earth that throbs as if alive with nature's curse and cure the autumn leaves with sound resolve of empty shadows in graceless halls. Tuck, now tuck and roll into unseemly embrace of outward sighs and orange deceptions of peaceful illusions and rumpled sheets in worthless dreams and liquid thought Passing hope in twisting air.
A shadow in Tennessee like water upon a mountain, slowly infests the greatness and exposes the copper bones of barren necessity and naked contrition bourne down by the wind the snow, fire and rain Absolute destruction of green and contrivance of blue and artificial In lumps of clay In moist decline.
Venus sits in the bowl of the moon, glistens in the deep of your eyes swims in dim brightness inside the music that dances you in voyages across the dark that carry you in harmony Upwards To dissolve Into threads Of dreams.
On the table, a half-eaten sandwich in the kitchen of your house Outside, a black wind, resistless across the plains, like an ancient visitor who in passing glimpses inside Where, you, wrapped within a deep, smoky dance alive in orange light glinting golden and sudden across a blue, tattooed skin against the reachless dark frozen in abstraction against ethereal sanctuary.
A tree is standing alone in silence and the cold wisps through branches extending into autumn gradient from orange to deeper blue, to holy night where stars break, wheeling carefully through an oblivion.
Come and sleep in the rain. Walk fields bright with sound, tossing grasses, swirling hillsides kiss the clouds in the sky mold your fingers into the ground stretch out on the fertile earth warm the body with your soul take your hair and pull it back, gather it like yesterday spread around your shoulders a wreath of wind play in the embrace and dance on the hill. Your dress is a sail your beauty a silhouette against the rain.
I am not here to tell you anything you don't already know. I have no other message than what you have already heard. I am no different from that sunny day in June when you sat beside the river. I am the same as that blue starlight that danced among the trees. I have nothing else to say I need only to be heard.
It is a cool, blue thought of you, yesterday it seems, dreaming in your sleep or reading on the floor. It is a cool, blue thought of a precise moment in uncertain crossings of time a cool, blue monument that I have made.
I walked up the hill where your shadow once sat and watched the clouds echo over the hills and listened to the wind wisp green traces of your grace. I sat within your solitude but you were still lost.
Only once did I touch you and only once did you touch me. It seems we only met when we said goodbye.
The line curves over, a traced path along the floor and I, entranced, watched as the shape without figures a shape within wrapping so deep a greater puzzle that some other man might enter, but like me, get lost in the rapid shift of new designs.
Wishes are not eternal Not possible, not anything but a formal hope spread upon the darkness of souls without life, or the presence of freedom.
A poem is never finished. It rests to be taken up again in poverty of happiness or remembered joys that ache for resolution.
Forgive me. Forgive my stubborn ignorance Forgive my helpless dependance Forgive my refined emotions Forgive my gentle deceptions Forgive my longing Forgive my drowning Forgive my masks Forgive me.
Where am I alone? In your house, beside your chair or on the paths you walk or the hills where you sit? Where am I lonely? In the skies that you watch or the rushing ocean waves or the sand about your feet? Where am I forgotten? In the darkly falling rain or the sleep that you sleep or the dreams that slip by?
A candle on the nightstand and measured jazz soft and blue in the night I hold you only in my mind and slowly sip the wine you left me.
The rule of trees is to rustle whether happy or angry or to sway in sadness or pleasure It is the rule of people to put emotions upon the wind.
The horizon is artificial that splits grey-scudding clouds from the moist doom of earth that transits across my perspective in hopping glimpses of eternity A singular line that bisects and defines rhythms of eternal death and circuses of etherial life I do not know but I feel it is false and it may be so ...
We are in the grace of Winter Set pieces, arranged on the stage lit by iron-grey skies and framed by brittle trees and husks of nature rooted in ice. We are unable to move until the thaw waiting in frozen abstraction the puzzle of an unending season.
What in fear resides but a bitter calm of resignation and of loss in cold rationalization of a fair exchange, a regretful bargain. A transaction of purely mercantile proportion: Something for something An even trade of hope for tragedy of desire for reward.
Pull down the opus that operates the great, brass machine in adoration of the wheels and worship of the elegiac hum; of machined precision and delicate art, whose soul is the soul of deliberate esteem and function is the quality of unexplored rhythms of reciprocating acts -- where in mechanical heat Lies the essential nature of the cold stone of Conscience.
The more it gives, the more it takes in quiet, exact transactions that more or less reflect the morality of the Cosmos So, love is but fortune's wheel that spins by human hopes but turns on mere circumstance and but for brief infractions that careen on a quantum level there will become a perfect ending to this comic passion play.
The thought is traced in fine, black line that cruises along the yellow page in rivulets of rises and falls which spell out those inner thoughts word by word, phrase by phrase until is built by graphic threads a web of delicate perception -- lost among the trinkets of the earth.
Peel back the skin of an honest thought and dissect the rhythms of a generous heart ; analyze until your subject is dissassembled, each component stored in separate jar, labeled and filed with the results of your other failed experiments.
Dance in slow delight, eyes closed, arms out, upon the darkening hill shaped against the twilight that stretches to heaven with your face upturned like an opalescent dream, in courageous embrace of the mystery in the distance between you and the stars.
Upon the concave of my pillow in wrinkled percale lies the shadow of my beloved who walked out in a winter's gale naked to everyone but me; in cold exaggeration of my rudest awakening.
Give me time to find the answer sitting in a parlour splashed with dark, paper memories framed isolations and bric-a-brac; stuffed furniture and small embraces. Give me time to think upon the creeping distance of time and memory to fix a single instance of transaction when it was suddenly lost in the dark glass of eternity. Give me a chance to feel the quiet summer wind play upon embroidered curtains that billow and stir memories of what this room held before I let it go.
A Transit moment, like a memento framed in the dark parlour of empty chances -- a soft sigh, and the warmth of a head resting securely upon my shoulder; a wistful, timeless moment lost in the corridors of days where wander ghosts of youth and certainty, of age and regret.

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