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.