Monday, February 18, 2013

The Music of the Mailbox Horses

White sun on blue snow's
day moon crystals
down syrup echo drains
and racing streams;

is this the outside world
I dreamed was me?

Cold wind hollow bells
and leaf scrape rattles,
the gate creak chitter of chickadees
and bark of gulls,
a turning of knobs
where there are no doors,
or none that can be seen.

Elusive, though the chatters
use my ears
to sound incomparably

It can all be drawn together
like it's meant to be
though its beauty's in the space
in between,
its tragedy.

1 comment:

the walking man said...

Those spaces seem to be getting smaller and shorter.