Seeking out the bubbles rising
to greet the air, ill humored
handshakes on nature's stage.
A forty tribed kingdom rests
in ashes, all the ancient conversations
dusted over with time's presence.
Unknown, but walking toward
the harpsichord's music, resting
on quilts of tattered rag patches
stuffed with duck feather down.
The bad vegetarian, submitting
to my beliefs (?) and misspelling
words (though I edit my mistakes,
so you will never know). Drunk off
language's wine; the nectar
ever promised ambrosial like hyacinth
petals pressed into a cage, but I
will smile for you, unsure of where
I'm going and holding a candle
beneath the star dappled sky. Here
I lay and wait, regretting only
as my Lord suggests, far off the
mark and swimming from the
unpredictable nature of my dreams.