I’m only interested in
what happens in the periphery
the seizure of a treetop’s leaf
struck by inexplicable wind
held inexplicably by an arm of
something less than wood

The days are quite silent
mysteriously moving forward
as the untouchable clouds
that travel to untouchable
lands of rock and smoke

I sketch this madness
with ink of wine, shades
of sleep, colors of books
the perspective of lines
drawn with mad logic,
by principles of decay

I see beauty, lost
in the ubiquitous space
   of the irrelevant
I use my hand and pretend
to dig fingers as roots
in these fleeting singularities

The destiny of Man?

                     – To be swallowed
                        entirely by
                        essence.

Poetry