there is nothing left
but a meadow of immaculate whiteness
and a crimson sun
guarding the dome of illusions.

the fable has been enacted; the archetype
of the beast's transformation
has played out in reverse.
i converse at times with the memory,
and a melancholy sigh ripples into time,
increasing the air's heaviness
like the recall of a trauma.

is that too negative for you--
that multi-colored skein
twisted only after the fact
of ending, that
panoramic photograph
of moods, cantankerousness,
but also
joy?

a beauty and a beast in a galaxy
of violin-sounds drift like ghosts over
white halls of immaculate
craftsmanship: a meadow of snow.
a bag of discarded doughnuts
protrudes from a blue trash bin
along with stars gulped down and regurgitated
in an orgy of sleepwalking at the hour
of dreams...

you return with every dawn.
you, who are a wisp of morning,
a cloud gathering folklore and fairy tales
flying in on the back of a crow
whose feathers, even now, retain life

through sheer sorcery