Midnight Spire

Undulant dreams the moon
a pin      above the roof,
a wheel above the dog sky
rivulet orange burns and hungry clouds.
Rafters humming      tell do tell
spider shivers that’s how
and the Caspian ceiling
pulses (and) pulses (and) pulses.
A warm sill, a wisp
and a red drape curtain,
an ancient bulb       crinkle
and shadows hunt the walls.
Must be time lost
in a chest somewhere      here
must be, photographs,
splinters of memory
traipsing the crown, the spire,
laughing      notes and musty
cardboard boxes buried
mysterious and poignant.

Spire or On Listening to Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 1 in F-sharp Minor

Ivory keys wash ashore
tumbling in on      saltywaves,
crash upon rocky cliffs,
slide       over white sand floors.
The deep bones,
the old tusks, skeletons
on the beach
stand and dance!
under canopies
triple layer thick,
dance      under strings
and vines and stars,
dance      and clack
and shimmy
up the mountain.
Little skeleton
penguins
reaching up      until
the ghoulish cymbal,
the moons dripping       face,
the leap and the plummet
and broken frame-
fall      into the sea,
swallow the salt
and drain the marrow,
watch the dead keys
spiraling      back to life,
in the symphonic laws
of the current.