A second sun within the glass;
patterns of the nebulae and spider wool;
jewel laminate that shines like stars and capillary streams;
the earth thickened from its dream,
its breath made tangible.
Colors are borrowed away
so the sun can give birth to them again
as it can wipe away the years
from temporarily elderly roofs.
The shallows are solid,
the smoke's stuck to the sky
and desolate fairways glisten grey;
some story begins on a morning like this
though the robins sing elegies to our numb and pulsing ears.
A winter coat of obscurity
lifts the world to solidity,
as something finally real
—with all the pain and ecstasy that that entails—
but the real is just a station,
we continue on our journey
deeper into truth,
forward into fantasy.
