the sea of stories (and creation)

look at the sky
a web of stars
without lines,
a game of connect the dots
drawn in invisible ink
escaping with the moon

maybe if we were close enough
you could drag your finger through the constellations
and feel each thread, strum a song
and call it god;
weave a patch
the fabric of existence

or spin heaven into a spool
and save it for a time at sea,
letting it out at the quiet of night

make a home in a corner of the room
at the light of morning)
hang tiny beads of dew like

and sail on, unfold into a map
a cornered box of a sphere,
the opened gift of raven's chest

float atop
    the sea of stories
               and creation.

the mystery of what i see

i don’t know if i’m attracted
to the mystery
of what i see
or don’t

but there is something about
the things i know about you
and the beautiful

spaces between those things
like distant stars
that close up blind me
but from a distance
make sense and shapes
and stories

and i’m a dozen little children
robed in fur
whispering in each other’s ears,
guessing and gossiping:

under the spell
of the nightsky

the perfect bending

underneath this shale, frail
exoskeleton of paper and glass
glows a happiness (a contentment)
that when the wander of these days
and the wonder of this space
have all but fizzled out into the
far off disparate reaches of time
imploded into desolate dissipation
from dust bended into fume, floating
vapourously lonely and lean,
there in the galaxies of tender and new
births a fantasy, reality born
two sparked phantasmagorias
glorious bodies of red magic purple


gliding into your gravity
shower a million, trillion
cries of ecstasy; your eyes
(the perfect bending)
behold my ending.


when you are among the stars
will you touch one
for me?

is there room in your shadow
for the sun to live?
for there is where
gentle flowers lie.
i have but a fraction of the world
to give,
for give a choice to live,
four all your mysteries die.

one smile of yours to lift
me when you whisper