There is a time
When the swollen moon
Breathes a fevered breath
And the creases of velvet night swirl
In hazy indistinction.
The trees,
They bend toward their snowy mother
Who sways in a drunken rhythm.

Between my fingers stems
A glass of wine, one I dry on my tongue
And raise, empty, to the hollow heavens,
The sky that harbors the twice painted stars,
Each twin crystals in a double sky,
Yet only alone
Do I stay and sigh
At this abstract scene.

Now, slowly, it comes
To sweep and pull me,
Play the unscripted beat of my heavy heart,
And jerk the grounded earth from beneath my feet.
The dreary, dreamy air hangs like shuddering droplets
on gossamer strands
Yet it fills the solitude, and I can almost,
Yes, almost ...

There is a time,
When the silver sphere
Rests above the city skyline,
And distance turns plastic
To let my wistful hand slip through the curtain of distance,
and I,
Both blind and omniscient,
see you raise a glass to me.