Viewed through a keyhole

From different perches, visibility becomes transient and unreliable
My thoughts drift and I maintain their course but alter never their elegant sway
I experience lovely law internal; a sophisticated collection of creaky levers
They're always tugging at the moonlight
reminding me of little phrases, little bits, little nibbles
I can't stop smiling

Sometimes, I find myself fighting the invasion of premeditated moments
assimilating themselves into sacred raw distincitive veins
Polluting what I know and what I hope to know

from memories, whole and intact, I find life
from dreams, I find myself unscripted
A difference

There are cobbled streets where I go
gas lamps pouring out heat and the occassional light shower
small windows dump ample amounts of sunshine in the bedroom
I walk in and out of paintings I have seen, or sensed, and I am home: familiar abstraction
Is this Prague? Amsterdam?
Is this my record?


Comfort whisps around me, softly nudging me from street corner to entranceway to garden to roof
The air is moist, cool and scented
an old woman turns the soil around her bright orange flowers
It is a timeless place: ancient yes, but wise beyond its countless years
Music does not slip along my earlobes despite the audible birdsong
the quiet is calming, infinitely appealing

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For the time, my legs hold
Miles up, breathing steadily, I am with the clouds
they are a flock of wandering nomads wrapping their arms about the peak
I am a lookout, powerless but aware
I see the size of my curiosity placed in perspective
I am the inspiration daze
I know you again
Am I awake?
Am I dreaming?

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