from here, thru the kitchen, to the door--
outside with big headphones.
the bright lake with dark houses--
the moonlight, but not the moon.
shadows from the album skies, 1/2, streams--
the 100s have their filters cut.
the solemn, weary wood sleeps furiously,
colourless and green--
were that i were static become coherent
as lightning spines--
were that i were thyme; were that i were sage.
were that i were lichened to a rock.
may all of carbon aspire to diamond--
may water strike away.