Hall of Memory

In a world of memorable skylights,
of jumping rat-a-tats and chorusing
larks, the invisible sits beside the stone,
fingers mimicrying shadowmen,
the honey oozing from the eyes,
flooding the hall with light.

We stand beside the invisible,
contemplating the source of song.
We stand behind desks, holding
lightbulb pens, penciling out cursive
recitals to our unknown gods and
playing moss-laden flutes, while
the world in memory shudders by,
jumping in juxtaposed flashes of light,
time as indefinable as an empty star.

Birds of Prey

We are the flight-birds, wheeling our cries
over a stark and barren world.
We have wings of steel and eyes of pale
moonlight, and we hunt in the noon-time
for chariots and herons, not having
slept during the night for fear
that our dreams would come and haunt
us during the day.

After we hunt, we sleep amongst
a pile of stones, sapphire, basalt,
concrete, and ruby, and we see the world
as it always was, but could never be dreamt.