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.