The dawn is malleable, a molten tree
whose rooted membrane nourishes
the passionate embrace of the clay below.
Anarchic, red, and ecstatic, the sun
escapes my brain with a desire
for fullness and the shadow of dream.
The friction and wetness of orgasm
drive me to right and wrong,
the jars of righteousness filled with an oil
that salves loss and subdues with joy.
Despair's smell is a presence startling in clarity,
as the wick in the lamp pulsates to the rhythm
of one choosing to be who one is to be.
When the film ends, and the train
of consciousness detaches from the helix,
when the flash of light and rushing sound
imprint being on cinder walls, and burn
an unforgiving sign as caress through ash.
Then the gaze that defines, the penetrating face
to face of one I do not know, questions
the silence I impose on space and time.
(c) copyright Charles David Miller. All rights reserved.