There it goes again
perpetual mosquito, flying ‘side my head
Calm after the storm, after the calm
before the storm
With the galaxies aligning and the initial combustion engine
forth comes a library of/ (in) complete silence
flying buzzing tolling following it’s always just
the same. Or could we just have installed it incorrectly?
As the writer’s soul bleeds through ancient oak veins
It is there in the crinkling of ink on cloth.
The tomes resonate with the midmorning echo of
last year’s taps.
When the sun flies to the raven to break a canon’s
and when the rain flies downward leisurely upon
sand pile colonies, we write it off to be
“within our head” – a mere moth’s dream towards
Beauty while alighting on a garden rail.
So here it comes again
waiting in the silence of forest green eyes.
With the snap of the albatross,
is it the doorbell, a pizzaman holding out the future?
Or perhaps a rusted churchbell murmuring through the
reeds and boughs of yesterday mourning?
Or even a broken teapot, with a deep forlorn whistle,
beckoning us to stay awhile in this ringing moment
You call Home.