~That night of cold rain, drizzle-trickled on my windowpane. The dark car, half-noticed at first, circled the block like a slow and ominous fish. Dimly lit inside. A Nautilus of the night. I knew her by the curve of her eyebrow, the shadow of her cheekbone. Away. Gone for good, now.~
***
Image credit: https://onceuponatime.fandom.com/wiki/Nautilus
To us they come,
as elusive as vision’s veil.
Osmotic they seep into clear blue sky,
cocooned in the wombs of their dream-home
and, as quickly, wink out.
They know what we did last summer,
and want to close the portals once and for all.
***
Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/kirillslov-8058952/
We are sleeping citizens in a realm of unending light.
Of late, he takes good care of me- that man with the hand in the darkness. He is perfumed with loam and grassiness, and says ~Stay down to this Earth. Look not to the lights above, for you are borrowed from them. What you long for is not in the faraway, but in yourself.~
***
Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/jacksondavid-1857643/
I am one for snowy story scenes. For slow walks through the safe streets of Tokyo, abandoned in the rain. For bumper cars, pedal to the metal, connected to a thundercloud, and for the glowing drones like lit dandelions etching the wheat fields with strange sayings. I am one.
***
Image credit: Pinterest
In 1922, Barbara and Owen Flynn from Strathmore, California, found a little mountain enclave called Camp Nelson. Following the example of their …
Secret and silent-
the cold crackle of air with soft sparkles of gamma.
Opens my garage,
changes my channels,
excites the pocket monolith.
Away I want,
I think.
Away.
[Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/analogicus-8164369/ ]
You wear the white cotton and those bobby socks.
~I’ll bring the scissors~
~It was a thing I felt
in a faraway day-
we were joined, unbesmirched,
but the swirl of the world
let fall that crystal egg
into depths unredeemable.
And now, in dreams, I reach.
With scalding lungs I cry.~
[Image credit: https://pixabay.com/users/prodigalson-14011771/ ]
A stranger that I know
lies deeply in leafy mold.
We speak by mumbles in opportune nights.
He is always looking away
to some mystery
true and precious,
but I cannot follow his eye.
He surprises me on inopportune days-
pulling those strings,
a pretense of wings,
unknowable things.
Aremyfeetofftheground 