matter-of-fact
and dismissingly
transitory
this thin fabric
that cradles
and caresses blithely

light blue
in color
and in nature

let this blow
on the wind
she discards it like
the ticket stub from
a summer movie
predictably lost

time is swift
and achingly
invisible

never declares
or commits to print
on thick parchment
words come forth
from fingertips
that are eagerly blind

not for sale
yet peddled
as vital

I hear with my eyes
build this Babylon
on a bed of sand
ignoring the cautionary
huff and puff
of parables past

her dreams
scuffed out
on chalkboard

I meld with her
in a sea of my own
electricity and hope
misguided, thirsty
bluntly out
of sync

longing for
the touch
that never comes

hawking

© Tom Watters  5/13/07