Between Atoms and Saturn

A thin film of night

Casts like spool 

Dressed in lamp glow

Barely visible.

A warm front 

June in its veins

Slinks through town.

A yawn of deep frost 

Wakes the bare skin.

We turn around

Laugh at the wind

Stick our tongues out 

As rubber wheels turn 

And turn 

And the short sharp kick

Of leather and cement

Carves crude lines

In the city street.

With the change

Of season

Comes a force

Veiled and still

Somewhere between atoms and Saturn
Like velvet wood pulp

Cut to a thin
Etched in symbols

Stacked so as to elicit

In the reader

A series of hallucinations

New and poignant

Throbbing with good

And sometimes awful


A normal household butter knife,

Honed enough to slice through

A crusted glaze,

Will peel the trembling dark

And widdle away the Old moons.

I collect beds for hobby.

I sleep in them.

But none of them knew

The kinds of things

I dreamt as a child.

A quiet 

Pushing on the windows.

A television talking through the walls.

A smattering of images,

Shafts of light,

And shadows.

My eyes close

For one minute

Two minutes


I open to find the world has changed.

But I have stayed the same

After all these years.

A creature of habit.

An owl who knows its own answer.

A seed with every intention of sprouting.

Just not right now.

It’s getting late.

The film is grainy now

An old movie in an old protector

Dust in the beam.

The street light looks like an apricot

And the warm air,

An electrical current with no backstory

An awakening

A grin 

Of blue, black sky

And buzzing, flying things

Who never saw the light of Spring.


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