the winds die down

the crickets take their cue from the twilight,
scratching their sides in excited chatter,
they welcome the night with songs they exude
not from their throats,
but close to their invertebrate hearts,
and they shatter the stillness
of the blanket that swallows the world
when the winds die down.

the stars take their cue from the evening,
blinking their gazelessness at the sight,
they bathe the restful with the silent promise
of sleep and dreams,
replete with its weakening resistance,
and they summon the lovers to a banquet
of sultry promises and delight and consummation
when the winds die down.

the moon takes her cue from the dreamer,
arranging her face in voiceless dedication,
she lets her gossamer hair down in cascades
that fall like feathers,
she dances the slowest of waltzes,
and in her wake begets longings and desires
that awaken and come alive
only in the sunlessness
of when the winds die down.



once upon a time,
the atog lived,
feeding on thoughts,
feasting on memories.

he was the wizard’s pet,
the sorcerer’s sagacity;
they took care of him,
and the atog was not choosy:
facts, or fiction,
it was the same to him,
patient he was,
standing still, waiting
in deep analysis,
in concentration,
for his time to pounce.

one stroke only,
a single upheaval
to cleanse the clutter,
was what it needed…

to shoot the stars.


there is your smile,
plastered like a stain
upon the sky.

to see it,
all i need do
is just look up.

but looking up
hurts more than many wounds.

and so by choice,
i go about each day
looking at pavements,
avoiding puddles,
bearing this unbearable…

because you are now happy,
and i should be
letting you go.