This is where
poetry comes from -
the textured silk
of the sea.
The sunset hitting
a window frame
quiet iridescence
of beauty.
The abrupt blinking
of small screens.
Spider webs of unused rooms.
The stab that makes
the silence scream.
Empty bottles of perfume.
The yellow ribbons
of the road,
the white ribbons
of contrails,
the silver shined
parallel ropes
of long-distance vanishing
rails.
The mists quivery
with early light,
a lone boat returning late.
The scattered
shrapnel of a life,
the shudder of a mangled
gate.
The strange geometry
of geodes.
Comfort zones of shaggy mundane.
The footwork of
slow dancing blood
in the long
corridors of veins.
