Imagination.

It's all about God (the roving bandit she is)
playing with all the missing pieces, stealing all the
best lines never written
and blowing scene after scene with a wintery breath
the first night of her refusal in her deep purple phase,
the moonglow her pale-skinned backdrop.

Who then fills in sepia gaps
with down-to-earth native poems? Let's not
tarry about our business or
make snap judgments because, if I remember
correctly, life turns itself on a dime and nothing
is ever quite the same, though the sameness feels
much like an archaic boredom of the disinherited,
disaffected and the diminished parts of me
walking the spirit realm with vacant untoward eyes.

There's no chasm between my imagination and what is
that isn't held in some far-flung thought--
thrown about in torments of decision. I come down
from your ivory tower and my burning mountain on foot,
well traveled, nevertheless.

When the grapes of wrath blossom even stranger fruit than I
can recall and then withers away on some other acre,
I am filled with the
scent of wild strawberries and imagine I am
unfinished.

Like a drab little sparrow, falling from his chosen perch and frozen to your
touch, my Love,
only the song remains, tethered to sky
like drops of a lullaby.