i.

Interloper.
I have no idea why that word popped in for an unofficial visitation,
a declaration of immanence
as though it is meant to mean something. Or should.

And now an ill wind
officiating my eyes erases other words from the palette of my mind.
My poem blows way off course in an adventure into the unknown
reminiscent of the Twilight Zone.
Daylight people turn into office and
factory moles, navigating strange traffic twists and turns to be
judged worthy. There in the corner, a harlequin-patterned mime squeezes
into the empty box Helios leaves behind. All the colours have drowned like fish caught
in the orange beaks of shorebirds but for one or two. In the blinding
light I shall have to think better of it, I think.

ii.

Love
is an island in the Galapagos
with two able hands rowing the boat ashore.
I've heard pigs have not evolved to fly and this is what I know of Alice B.Toklas--
venturing through the distance, dressing in the museum of time, winding up and melting
down in a Dali landscape of light and dark symbols of mythology. A woman is green as
a four-leaved clover in Shiva's metallic hands. She looks like a daydream but
Chagall paints her in tones of blue and rose. He fills in her emptiness.

iii.

The moon anchors a beam to the word made manifest, I write this poem.

iv.

There's a noose around my neck, words weigh me down. Fragile things must take flight.