I (Prelude)

My doors close as softly
at 27; the towns I’ve never seen remain
the same,
waiting to be
discovered or redeemed

by my eyes and forgotten
when I turn from them
in doubt,
with raging mornings and darker nights
they call home.

They retreat from the passion
in rainbows and hurricanes
like the trumpets devils and angels blow.

II

Fog roams the streets
with sulfur breath, a lament
swelling from the harbor;
persistent
as autumn, probing the silent
sidewalks and dancing.

A shadow play written
behind the mirror and acted out
before the moon;
on a beach
by a bonfire, in the sand melted underneath.

A restlessness haunting paintings,
sonnets, and encyclopedias;
the epitaph
for splender, the urge to posses
the spaces where there were trees.