Cups, mouths filling and emptying Talk. Hands waving the slight ribbon Of winter cold.

Books, sonars Of a searching soul, weaving an incidental Tapestry of two signals.

First, silken, hushed with rain, yours. Second, coarse, maniacal, hurled Over an asylum wall, mine.

Other truths? They were revealed By simply watching how your Body moved.

Another evening has passed, apparently. The only sign it has left is this dismembered Time, wrapped around my wrist, Which I now look at disbelievingly.

2004:01:03 21:15 Atlanta

If you go out into the cold now And after getting under a filigree of basalt branches, Look up,

You will see me there With my silken nets, hauling in A piece of the moon.

Everything was vivid for a longish moment. The clock tower braised by evening flame. Her eyes, gleaming like an ocelot's, drinking at dusk, at the far shore of the table, which stood between you. Then the intervening days began to char that canvas, starting at its ends.

You wake up every morning and find some ash falling from your eyelids.

2004:01:06 20:00 Atlanta