how shall I skull you
i know you’re there
arrived on air

like an earwig
scrawling on a vellum
tympan in the dark

drizzling november rain
remembering a time
of once much taller trees

hearing my heartbeat
like thunder in the leaves
in the shape shifting light

what matter what we seem
phantom or dream
it’s but the season

in flawed reason
the process & procession
repetition ramification distortion

or the illusion
a butterfly in a garden
& then a man again

in the madness sickness
& sadness in the name of
goodness & badness

as though it were innate
this poor short world of hate
where all we human pass too late

infinitesimal in the frail dark drizzle
so thin shrouded in the dead & living
not knowing where we end or begin
Gift of Tongues