If I breathe,
will I hurt the air,
will I break the moon,
shatter, tear
this moment
frail, silvern,
when crickets whisper
Chopin nocturne?
If I breathe,
will I hurt the air,
will I break the moon,
shatter, tear
this moment
frail, silvern,
when crickets whisper
Chopin nocturne?
It’s there
in spectral glow
an orb of lustrous being
something that we know
yet just beyond our seeing
elusive and alluring
it hovers in a mist
with silhouette and shadow
slyly obstructionist.
Still writers strain and grope
— it really is absurd —
for the Holy Grail beclouded:
that precise
exact
right word.
More thanks to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives for this remarkable image of the writer’s brain.
little sneak
photo-bomber
how rude! what cheek!
Down in lower
right-hand corner
he is poised
all aloner
spindly-legged
silhouette
impertinent
rapscallion bete
minding not
his savoir-faire
while taking in
the rosy air.
latticed
over cloudblush
thousand-fingered hands
outstretched
addio to sunset flush.
Thanks yet again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.