song for a circle..

Little wing, on the edge of lunar eggshell capitus, Carry each others colors to bridge eyes and unseen lives, Into each others time, Where lovers of different languages, Understand the distance between them, They take each others unfinished sentences, Into a healing garden to rest, Once they trust the ground there they begin to dream, Of the true identity behind their lies, Such a gathering, I risk everything to watch, And am returned to wander in wonder of whose mind was uttered peace, Or the knowledge to turn the page into rain, Into all the rain that falls, And find where one drop of inner condensation forms, And stay in that gathering, And feed what grows there, Pushes the emptiness through tight interstices, Makes all things transparent, In vapour connectivity’s, The quietest unwinding, Into the equidistant mandala of knowing, Touch for the first time, A thousand broken pieces, Stuck to the underbelly, The longer side of the day, Thinner treaded, smaller threaded mechanisms, Feed night dogs, To sing a song of homelessness, I contemplate the personal nature of all my treasures and losses, Their high pitched sensitivity, Telling me of my true nature, Polymorphic laughing tenderness, Bent around shadowy relief, inferential implicit interfaces, Bent over extended, Capture in the speed of light, Stillness and silence, And eye that disappears in unexpected, unimagined, improbableness, Feeds the night wind, Across empty pools, In child hood protection, Quiet trees, Cool sleeves, The heart unloads silent tears, Feeds the night wound, My mother, An older tongue that makes my hair stand up in tones and pressures, Turns my heart around, Where I take my first steps, In a delicate pain that touches two worlds at the same time, Two words, Making sense from a broken cup, Doesn’t lose the smell of fire in the sunshine, Doesn’t forget the name behind loss and gain, Never finds the answer to its openness, In the extraction of etchings from the glass, The Reflexes allowing fixations from deprivation, Warming winters dull privacy, Stuck to the bottom, The seam of potentiality, The perfect conservation of experience and awareness