perch

perfect storm, day before last
i sat naked on the precipice
shed opinions and perspectives like an old snakeskin,
and braided synaesthetic masterpieces
from my perch to the horizon:

wind's pallet and dawn's touch;
birdsong's soft kiss and fog's tremelo;
silence and grace dancing like two old lovers literally too spent to do anything else

god of course is no more present in that glory
than she is in the chaos of rabies or nightsweats or shadowed fugue states,
but she SEEMS like she is
and that's what gave me the juice

to stop harvesting maybes
leave thought's necrotic cul-de-sacs for the perch
and simply watch the big show

sub ek