The Lord is in his cosmic slumber
Parvati says, "I hope he wakes up soon."
And then adds, "But let him not just yet.
My poor. How wearisome it must be for him."

Fresco

Lying down
in that 10X20 room
listening to Imagine in one ear
and gentle hearts beat in another,
was surreal.

And now,
a state not that,
or more exhilarating,
seems like a facade.
Untrue and woven.

Tending

Fill the years and the ears, oh Moon.

Celestial

Warm gentle images, slowed by us,
waft across our kaleidoscope.


I, with some occasional bashfulness,
deflect onto you,
the colored mirror's shine.

And you, shield your sparkling eyes,
letting that rare coughy laugh
in the close mood of the light,
with vintage wine on the table,
and the night that surrounds our backs;

when there is a tingly smile, (hah)
on me, and joy on us.

Oh, could Lennon be singing then?
(Not Imagine - although it is near divine)
Perhaps something you, or I, could tell
when there will be time.

< Overdoing Eliot's line? >


- Whatever fate decrees.

And there is no such vein
that got written here,
for inspiration.

It is, like the Volkhov.
Waltzing inside me.

Laughing and smiling,
unabashedly at this irrationality;
these forced metrics and rhymes.