Walter

silver harps carooned the moon
were-walls were you the twilight?
so faintly I discern
the fog-pale sound
of the whispering swarm
of humanoid swans
joined into a mandala

and trees which hover
their roots adangle and festooned
with faux skulls fandango'd
with grinning grylli

odd Walter
does the night rain
make umbrellas
for Chopin?

and do the raindrops huddle
in the granulure
of the muddle?

see this arc of moon my friend?
no? the old grasshopper queen
wears her octopus crown and from it
flowing down
the untethered tremblings
which you mistook
for falling gardens

the absolute
wills such odd candor
and beyond the leaf
the wash of soft times moves on

suns are born
in monumental emptiness


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