This language is floating

in the eye 

waiting for the flourish

in the spindrift 

the barb of letters

grated from alphabets

feasting on asparations

mocking our betterselves

to build a temple of words

in the mind

along the rain roads and dirt skies

watching the melancholy of shadows

window tree of summers blossom

rook and crow talk like men

in the dislocation between

thought and object

the sun light enquiring in the creaminess of clouds

the sky a place for the eyes to muse   

and it was if the words held the mind in

place

the voices- aloof

occasionaly the wonderstruck pen

offers the deliacacy of the ink

if you posses

a poets vision

in world so

vast.