Workshop

The least manageable fraction
of unreleased time
is a virgin consequence of blasted
tomorrow.  This stem of night
carries flashes of life through
ardent branches, not
perplexed at all.

You want to know
where you are.
Fair enough, as hands emerge
from fragrant meadows
of longing.  The long
and short of it.

Is this the workshop honey?
parting her hair
with the sun.

3-13-13

The lost purpose of evening
when the stars are fertile
and time bends back

dreams edge their masters
into realms of dust
glowing in another universe
just across the wobbling sea.

The vagaries of day desist,
while sleep insists on
passion's focus
swimming in long sunlit waters
for the moment before it fades
back into the boundless sea.

Moon flares its rhythms,
broken words racing into its light
how do we locate ourselves
in the blazing cacophony of night
so far beyond us it seems silent?

We can't go back, we can't go on.
With aching echoes of yearning
the urge to wake back into time
before the night is solved
into the consolations of morning.

 --early March 2013