Q u i d a m

Next flight

We have lost; we've been lost in the distant mountain

tops, where hands loose the string in the silent

tips of fingers, crossed for reading and choking on dissolved air,

She's draping her thin fabric over her shoulder—

tightly, smothered with magnified beauty, statues of the deep sea.

On the arrows of carnations, the blaze shoots

at certain dark things, rare but unkind— a secret

always kept as shadow wings.

The earth is rolling out of shadowy hopes, an eclipse of fogs,

"Yet you're far away from freeing the birds where they next fly."

His presence is foreign on the familiar street, stretching out

as a mist humidifier in the burned coil, but what's its trajectory?

Without a hungry sea, stories flow and collide at our heels.

Ambition, love, and passion— all that is lost in a withered husk,

Tell me, "Who's going to remember you in the summer dusk?"

The slime maze gets burned, and we lose ourselves in delightful

Illusion, he wasted himself with salty wine,

Wanderers never stop; every bird has its nest.

"Where's your next flight home?"

She hides her bruised holes, underneath the thin fabric.

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