The red-gold heaven

of stormy autumn

leafy-misty lights this late

October dawn recalling me,

curiously,

to the design hidden in the words

of the seventh seal, of the seventh son,

where you really gotta hold on, hold on.

Swirls of wood-smoke hide

time-ridden, missing things:

amomgst a fleeting meeting with the past:

something else that does not last,

nothing is hidden in these words that is not:

aberrant, obsessed, selfish.

Sorry-wisps of cogitation, coagulate,

thicken into the light of another beautiful March

dawn, at a time of plague, which has deranged time,

and passes strange lines of time over me.

The fading unquiet music of rhyme

leaves such and such shrines untold, in this desolate mind of mine,

where, just for a time, i am out of my mind:

as I hold on, hold on, Oh! baby you gotta hold on.