amongst the ruins of tinsel and tower...
breath arises,
and on its vapid cloud, within the frigid timbre of note and nothing
so awash amidst the want and wishes,
The Word
emerges,
Speaking of Moment, and Meaning, and
More.
Often, manners are forgot, amidst the frozen moisture of tiny
drops, at Sir, and Sire, and Such, the Madames are not so tidy,
and This old flicker, nuzzling still, its egged-on Young,
Glows Green and
Brazen, and Oh, so
Bold among the
Shadows....
Which move, even as we Speak.
