Moleskin Meditation

One afternoon's worth of thoughts from my notebook

 The sun is in its last years of life

While the potholes and dead leaves say their farewells.

The angle of perfection is struck,

An arc of wonder across man's freshly open eyes

And it bids him to run,

To run and never stop.

Man's dishonest timepiece

Mechanical, envious, full of wonder

Tearing a pinstripe cloud

In the perfect darkening blue face

Of the innocent ceiling

Of the springtime earth.

The stones split in their fear of the night,

While freshly blurred vision acclimates towards darkness.

Only the moon can laugh without impurity of its emotion

Looking down at the abundance of its new dark domain

As it sidles its way, slender and cruel

Silently across the deadpan sky.