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I listen to resonance ring
in ingots slung upon anvils.
I witness images slip inside
hesitant visions of dualities
and trace words from lips
unkissed by this reality.
So what of these swirling waves
wielded by the seas... perhaps
wind patterns in wheat fields,
or the summer-warm stones
in some forlorn churchyard
lonely as bony Mondays?
I feel warm winds lofted in liquid birdsong. I see
people unwind their temporal chains as God
wanders through cardboard stage-props
taking names. And any loose intuition
is just a collective echo of thoughts
scribbled across ad-libbed finality.
Numbers rotate unscathed
in their mysterious dance
upon cellular divisions of infinity.
Giant cog wheels of history
roll into the seas and rust.
In polarized inversion,
wintry midnight suns
throw no shadow of ego.
Somewhere on Earth,
a drop of vanilla ice-cream
falls between sandy toes.
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