The balance of life and death

rests on a dot in the sky

whose frivolous shivering breath

rivals the moths in its quivering

rippling hovering, high

and triumphant amongst the cumulus,

the twin-piping syrinx delivering

an opus more complex, more tremulous

and vaporous than any cantata.

The minstrel of the meadow 

sees the grasshopper climbing,

sees the froghopper fal...

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skylark song

calling out to the wall it does not know

fooled by the glass echoes

it cannot escape

chained by sightless hope

gazing through

that which looks it in the eye

there is no glass

there is no glass

but

there always has been

you never did notice?

did the bird never fly?

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