Song of the New-risen Winter Sun.

Even if
today,
immediate Creation around me
were replicated twenty- nine
and a half
mindless times,
we would still be living
in a glazed and unseeing

eye,
cloudy cornea concealed
by easy sleep –
undeserved,
like the scraggly beggar’s
jitters
wasting and warring with
the ill-gotten ammunition of time,
that probes open
eyelids
with the gnarled fingers
of a swirling miasma
hanging whole

and trudging,
a leaden terpsichore –
sombre and imperturbed
in absentia
of almost all motion

but for the wayward travel
of amoebic dust crystals,
megalomaniacal in
matters of multiplication

which the sunray limbs
of light
clasp, cover and guide
to an eternity
of grave wispiness
and a thunderous

fragmentation,
born of guardian angels
in a Heaven
cushioned with feathers shorn off
their very own wings

now they wallow
behind tapestries of
yellow-tipped flowers,
halo in neuroticism,
pirouette in the
morning light
garish bright
or soft without variety
as the one
the sun
emits today, shy

like the moon
on nights and days
of playful cafuné
between the wind and
the upturned women
reborn as trees
with leaves for their hair

strands,
seen either as
millet tresses
tearing the sky apart
with pendulous rustle
during visits from its capricious
breeze lover

or as perfect, rounded
jade blobs
of living paint or wire knots
filligreeing
the measled, peach
chalkboard

above,
where loss one writs
and omits,
their roots
are still coloured rubicund
by the bowels of the earth,
for in obscurity
lies their discreet
comfort

and everything else,
is wraithed by smoke
in trails
quick to disappear
but the wind vane branches
stand out

like stiff eyelashes
or hands riddled
by rheumatic rejection,
there is a blending peculiar
of open, formless mists
and edges razed by sandpaper

and war cries,
against some
obscured oblivion
sound as throaty birdcalls,
twiddling skeins of silence,
tintinnabulating
in bell ears.

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