Wandering freely among voiceless trees,
Luminescent possible adulthoods blur and fade along edges of altered vision.
Dim factories conjure pale shapes from thick railway fog.
Icy rivers spring up from the shadows.
Frosted glass and fallen logs hide murky faces behind the mask of winter.
Walls close in and doors lock shut with stolen keys,
Withdrawal futures foretold, nightmare shaking in hypothermic rooms.
Reading poetry by cold avenue light for the parking lot assembly,
We are birds fallen from trees high up in the past.
Our true forms cloaked in drunken beards and designer politics.
Our grandparents built monuments to obscure flowers,
Ran tanks down winding country roads, stole millions from the bank of reason.
Now black trucks drag our jittery minds to parties dreamt in other starlight.
Holiness is light reflected.
Being is the earth, being is the air.
Everything is bound with links of feeling.
Born into warm cages with shuttered eyes,
Each day is a struggle for change.
Our blacktop paintings live to be seen,
They are unfulfilled vision women chiseled naked from glass,
Now free to stand, unexamined by callous, impotent experts.
The search for lazy paradise is an orchestra of empty glasses.
Sour notes wringing out discordant symphonies of dry tears.
Our adolescence comes upon the serene poem at last,
Naked truth wet and erect with its petals open to the sun.
Years go by, evenings grow warmer.
We are nothing but puppets of the night’s dark intentions.