Observe this, a tableau unbalanced, uncoveted, like a bruise.
Oh, she has a lovely face,and a wisp of a lilt,when she feels like conversingon our sometimes Sunday mornings.
Why do you find it so hard to look at me?
These are unexpected thoughts — breadcrumbs, that have drifted in from afar,escaped the swallows of the busy mind.
The days fold and creaselike paper in my hand.
My door opensto a sometime carnival…
Repose, settle in and downunder your black widow totemthat defies, like a sundialto prove its worth with its shadow.
Trompe L’Oeil, when ash and ember revisit;sparks drifting unquenched,like uneasiness,sifting downbelow.
Automatica