Beyond all sense and reason
yet within the bounds,
my love for Devlin the poet
and Dylan J the color maker,
old strands of light suffering
in new person.

Rooms flapping in the maze
where I lived in stasis,
looking for their cushions and masks,
comparing translucent blood,
passing into noon to make
morning night,
sharing slandered walls.

Horizons peering back
from the ant-crawled sill
ice pitcher and a leaf rolled
days to be paid with pounding clouds
the ache of a rancid pendulum
a trinity of pierced spaces
in the gassy sprawl.