Birds fly high and turn;
circles drawn in heaven.
My words they try and yearn
for clear dawn and evening.

I uncurl swirls into worlds.

The motes in my eyes
trace notes in the sky.
I float up and lie,
nebulous and sly.

The unstable I make fable with my labels

What’s it mean?
A sight unseen
ain’t dirt or clean.
Forced through a screen,
the truth we glean
from in-betweens;
the whole demeaned
and us serene.

My stern attention creates convention.
Is apprehension its own dimension?
Is that mass of tension worth a mention?

Images not there still float in air.

A prow that plows through crowds of clouds,
Her proud bow wows blown past the shrouds.

Turning starboard I dock in port.
Left out of sorts, we drift in Oort.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s