Time Traveler

My cloak is woven starlight, bending

time and light and memory–

a recollection of origins, place, kith and kin

that were and are, but are no more.

Mnemosyne, mother of the Muses

cradles me and whispers in my ear.

Get up! It is time to move on.


The great light, incandescent, fires the evening sky

Coruscant gold and burnished red, at the lighting of the lamps.

A greater light, deathless, translucent as crystal

Pure love, a shining sea of glass mingled with flame—ascends

Supplanting the heat of stars with brilliant eternity

Consuming the light of day with the Light of Life.

And there will be no night there.

The Eleventh Hour

You can go no further; stop.

Blue granite, steep cliff, face, sharp chin.

Faded blaze hammered to tree trunk,

gravel scattered, the carving of water in earth.

Footfalls on griege and rough stone, unstable.

A wide pathway crumbles upon descent.

Turn back as night falls.

An hour of work in the vinyard yet remains.

Flowers in the Spirit House are Borrowed

Flowers in the spirit house are borrowed,
the life that has been given us is lent;
we haven’t got a promise of tomorrow,
so gather blossoms ‘ere your time is spent.

The life that has been given us is lended,
like butterflies that live at once to die;
so gather blossoms ‘ere your time is ended,
their colors fall like rain across the sky.

Like butterflies that live for but a fortnight,
our spirits leave the earth uncommon fast;
their colors fall like rainbows shining so bright,
rejoice and gather flowers while they last.

Our spirits leave the earth returning homeward,
flowers in the spirit house are light;
rejoice and gather flowers leaning sunward–
we haven’t got a promise of tonight.


My heart has turned to wax;
It has melted within me.

The midday heat loves me too much—cire-perdue

A sprue hole hollow, a core of lost wax.

At the ninth hour there is no more separation;

Blast furnace heat melts, exposes and refines.

But burnished bronze—or gold—gathers chill.

Do not be far from me,
for trouble is near
and there is no one to help.

Abandoned by even myself, alone-ness is euphemism.

The earth splits, the curtain falls, exit stage left.

Lama Sabachthani?

Return my heart to me.


Small corners contain hidden remnants, a fragment rolled tightly, inscribed with words beyond kenning. This was spoken across the dimensions, time, and space. I am that I am. A child’s toy, a box filled with plastic animals, a stain on the ceiling. Breathing in the dark, spreading flame mirrored on the wall. In the air is a wheel, a circle, hands holding hands. Not one of them is missing.

Time inverts itself

The person that I once was

Lives beyond the Vale

Camera Obscura

As observed by Mozi, we are an image turned upside-down

Aristotle’s sun was broken by wickerwork, by the leaves of a tree

We are illumined, according to Theon, by unbent rays.

Alhazen has given to us a dark room, an aperture for reversal,

And DaVinci saw our darkened eyes filled with light.

Shen Kuo writes of an object, pearl bright, hovering above the city of Yangzuo,

Casting shadows in the night for miles; brilliant, intense, and strange.


Sheltered by the relative immensity of the summer porch, a web

and spider go unnoticed by important people about their business

while the firefly struggles–filaments ensnare and extinguish light.

Such things can only be seen through childish eyes, and longing

for the light that was will transfigure the mind to hope for light again.

Sheltered by the relative immensity of business and important people,

a soul goes unnoticed in a web of must and of now and of silence.

while the true self struggles–filaments ensnare and extinguish light.

Kneeling, armed with a bent reed, a smoldering wick, we begin the work.

It is no small thing to care for the firefly, to clean its wings, to set it free.

Deus, in adiutórium meum inténde.

Dómine, ad adiuvándum me festína

Before Darkness

A cirrus robe softly obscures

the feet of Queen Cassiopeia with filaments

of ice refracting pale

the whitest glow of Selene’s winged steed.

Hephaestus strikes his anvil

Cumulonimbus, having fallen only once–

As if to hide the searing path

Of fragments that fall

Broken, again and again to the earth.

Opacity and Distance

August again, brightening albicant haze

Delphic mirrors bending light towards the horizon

And sky

My eyes burn

I blink and the vision is gone.