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Mid-afternoon sun blazing down, illuminating your skin ... I pause. It's a dream, yes, all a dream, a short reverie in the midst of my journey. I know, I know, and yet, I do not want to know, for what I see ... it is art. In every sense of the word, it is art. Self expression from nothing less than the innermost realm of my soul. Is ... is that what you are? No more than a figment of my longing imagination? You turn. My revelation has only taken a moment, and in that time, you have accomplished so much. Your movements, the epitome of grace ... perhaps, even, a level of serenity no one would have expected from your dangling limbs, your unconventional beauty; but to me, it is only one of an infinite number of your precious attributes. Time seems to slow as I gaze into your face, yet ... I cannot discern the emotion gracing your visage. Your eyes, they are misty. Are mine the same? What do you see in me, my dear? I want to reach for your softly spiny hand. I want to smother your

The stars were a calamity that shook in my ribs, glittering fool’s gold in Pandora’s breast, the milk of mothers spilling into the universe like a slit vein My voice was a lunar eclipse in the shadow of an empire; a wheel to Apollo’s chariot eight spokes like eight pillars, a mill churning the waters. But in the froth I saw the clouds hand-whipped into shapes, and I saw fog descending like blindfolds; I saw Everest shivering. I saw apologies like corpses - trees felled to cup handwriting like stillborns - necessary casualties in war. I read that apology like a love letter, as if words could build bridges, but the view out of my window is still bare Apollo peers in without blinking, and I burn