letting go

tip tiptoe on the folding ledge
sound would be sacrilege
on this picture painting
moonlit night
let summer shed its wingskin
hum the song of belonging
to every pore and fissure
of this beautiful planet
resist hammering epitaphs
along each tempting milestone
let season take its centuries
to heal, this bright night
was made for moments
taken together, one more time
before they are taken apart
on buried bones

the blur of plates

poetry in motion
for the soulfully inclined
ask focus, not design
nor safety nets, nets
are for entrapment, meant
to retire small peaces
that may yet be meaning,
have been will be,
beautiful constructs
free for the free,
invisible to falling plates,
a sky cradle for plates that levitate
by growing gravity, plate by plate