Wednesday, December 19, 2007

The Spirit Dreams to Gleam

Sleep encroaches 'round me,
and disparately, I touch tiled land-
a dying bit of brush and tree.
Here the soul lies undigested
the air is cold and wintered.
All remains weighted,
the spirit dreams to gleam.

And I wish the mind could magic,
over the rooftops, over pines
of soldier green, into the eyes of night,
where sound dissolves,
into tiny little particles of light.

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