Friday, March 7, 2014


Dreamy blues nestle beside the cyan
And violets on the table I have
In mind. No small thing, this nothing at all,

Sickle-wielding, saturnine, pre-Shabbat
Gem of the dark of almost night, with rings
To set it in and sigh. Cessation comes,

The richest, darkest wine before sorrow,
The intoxication between orange
And melancholy, my happiest hour,

When I'm alone, taking in the evening,
Knowing there's nothing about this I'll hold,
Nothing about me this can hold, naked

To systems requiring fixed counts of things
That have no number, only mnemonics
And algorithms to follow them by.

I'm going back to where I've never been,
To the seam too small to be visible.
To mind, to India, my names recede.

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