I
Sometimes it is quiet when all is spoken.
I wrap your gaze tight, locking and
something zaps into tenuous feeling.
When it is done and declared
I feel your waves of weight barrel
across rows of sunlight glowing
in the trees across the street. Somewhere,
somehow, things will begin anew.
Kingdoms build on ground floors,
and in the air all is sparkling.
II
There are places you live
in and there are places you
inhabit. At home the silence kills
where no one is at home with
themselves. Someone tries a whistle
attempting to bring just a little bird-
song into the atmosphere. Lights
flicker on-off steadily but nothing
will change. The computer blinks
Hello! with exhitement
but I am forever hiding.
III
When fatigue comes one has no
strength to run. Let me go, let me
go on with you into the ever-darkness
where only works glow bright,
resurfacing.
Afterthought
Are all poets idealists not
only at heart but soul and mind and
strength? If so, are we
all poets?
Are you afraid of the dark
or the half-light?
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