O passion of infinite permitting

Lana woke me by the lake

It is rather dusty in a painter's attic.

The floor blurs the morning and gives her back to me

I watch each known horizon crumble like bleu cheese.

Hard feelings don't take to being caged.

There was a murder at my childhood playground today.

On days like these, the rebel trees go dancing, stripping leaves

I've a capacity for cruelty.

On these days of broken weather, I know better than to crave

The imps of antiquity hum in my lungs, skipping echoes

I nested them (soft verses— playful little things) in your palms

The morning's bakery is a silent one.

I like a look of danger in my cities and in my men.

He is always asking questions

You topple yourself, tumbling crystal

What rampant possibility in waking before the sun—

Ignorance crept

I kicked the past in the chest when it dared to run by

I love you most when I am dreaming.

Such round sounds on the mountaintop, drifting sighs on snow