Even in the sickles of your
half-closed eyes there are
elements of riddles, questions
and answers unmatched.

This is not the mystery of
the drifting transparent dead.
This is not the mystery of the
tallest ladder’s rungs, those
who clutch their heads and speak
in tongues, taken over by the fire.
This is not the mystery of the
liar and the disappearing
assistant.

This is the question of the city
in the morning, the persistent
daily surprise that things go on.
Lights are lit, pistons pump.
That people button, buckle, leave
their shelter, eat. The first surprise
as tires move on streets, as feet
press pedals in a way that preserves
glass and metal. This is the uncanny
way people, planes, cars move in
their directions absent a single
guiding intention.

For a second I look away
and you’re asleep. Tomorrow
I’ll play at knowing motives,
say I may know what
you’re thinking. But I only
know you surface and sink,
that the hour for sleep comes
easily and you rise at dawn. I know this
like I know your blinking eyes –
every second always here and always gone.

this is an amazing write...you have great vision

very well done...

yes, i like the way you see the morning
and the glint within your smiling crescent lines

Thank you kc :flowerforyou & H

WoW!!!

nice!!

Thank you Mom & jimz