the way the light houses are guarded by memory.
to love what is now set a fire inside yrself &
kiss the dead buds falling from a tree of shadows.
no coincidence the two hands of prayer point up.
the way we learned to live by visitation hours.
the words will have to be cut from a stronger metal.
fled into a mist of becoming:
the story of original sin is all spectacle in a recession.
I remember when we first thought the stars had fallen
for good & walked on egg shells for twelve summers.
rebuilding the city with water & wine.
beyond the corner store where the world is sugar & salt.
beyond sky scrapers & temples of commerce.
cracks in the sidewalk spelling out either polarity of ascent.
why the sun is full of blood—
resuscitating empty gardens.
leaking clues across yr search lights.
or is it the fistful of black marigolds asleep in the mind
emanating all that cannot be taken from you—
The Illusion of Stillness
the hounds of silence invade the cell walls
of my laughing sunflower.
their hungry ghosts create the facade
between what is known & unknown.
some who saw through their own eyes.
the day we woke up & everything was a wind instrument.
when the congregation decided to be unborn again.
every book at the library on keeping gardens was deemed lost or stolen.
the illusion of stillness falls
like an urn from the mantle of time.
from present to past.
all those hours running off yr watch.
who will have the last laugh
, the eyes turned inward
or the battering ram—
anywhere you can tell the difference between seeing & looking.
spell it out if you have to.
the only downside to window shopping.
the muse has taken an oath to let the headlines die today.
& not vice versa: let time tell you—
dreaming is self-preservation.
D.C. Wojciech is from Northern California. He edits Silver Pinion. Selected work can be found online at relicwindows.blogspot.com.