This is where poetry comes from -
the textured silk of the sea.
The sunset hitting a window frame
quiet iridescence of beauty.
The abrupt blinking of small screens.
Spider webs of unused rooms.
The stab that makes the silence scream.
Empty bottles of perfume.
The yellow ribbons of the road,
the white ribbons of contrails,
the silver shined parallel ropes
of long-distance vanishing rails.
The mists quivery with early light,
a lone boat returning late.
The scattered shrapnel of a life,
the shudder of a mangled gate.
The strange geometry of geodes.
Comfort zones of shaggy mundane.
The footwork of slow dancing bloodin the long corridors of veins.