they are right next to you
in the lanes, hugging a shoulder
*
they twitter in rafters
calling down to your mess
in rays, crescents
the white curled backs
of snapshots tucked in a frame,
eyes of the dead
*
there is a gimbal lamp, ledger,
a table of solid deal,
clocks & militaria
a dirty blotter
its crusty bottle, a plume
*
there are beetles and boojum
specimen jars decorated
with walkingsticks, waterstriders
and lunar moths
a treatise on rotating spheres
*
this swivel chair, worn,
from some years past
a few doubloons, powder horn
musket bag and tricorne hat
a cannon, its yawning round
*
they are closer than comfort
closer than night breaking
over the mountain face,
empurpled, its silhouette
ragged, silver
unquantifiable in pixie dusk
*
closer than power lines
casting shadows on brush
breath, heart ticking
the prepared delay
as twilight settles
in waves and crests
a water fowl, hooded owl
*
an avant garde,
a backward glance
