A birthday poem

In those moments between the minutes

Of the day’s cluster-fucks, its intrusions,

When city wind boils in backward closes

And beauty breathes dangerously in the leaves;

You’re drawn to grand mythologies, unicorns,

To epic acts, and lover’s heroics;

And to God knows what other damned romances

Dancing precarious on your empty walls.

It drives you to spirit-music, cooked on fire,

To words that skirt on oil-black oceans

Where wounded silhouettes shark the light

Beneath brooding skin never broken.

The seasons themselves appear undecided,

Between storm, or the boldness of the sun.