We are all twisted squares
of moonlight,
our Möbius mosaics
filtered by leaf and bramble,
fragments that trees failed
to catch before morning.
Our origin stumbles
through nights
sketched
by loosely lit dreams.
Patches stream shadow
over dead words or-
where less scattered,
etch tracks
for ghost trains
bound to crazy paths,
such as love and hope.
In either case,
too vague a destination
for easy rest.












21 old applause
