...states of grace in a burning place found in heather on the hillside, dauntless and lush, favored and fragrant, divine loci of daring and pillar of care, the envy of oak and dream of rose dwarfed by neither cloud nor quasar. Whiling days of nurtured joy, sheltered by wishes of content from winds of unjustified existence in orchards of space and faith, where bees are mesmerized by rarity. Acolyte from realms of light, giver of root and tender of tears, shoulders bared to angst and sadness, success raised in greater empathy and comfort of the other, unrelenting. Bird of paradise, authority's fear, wonder maturing, unknown fright and loss endured, how hard it must have been but for radiant spirit savoring delight with wells of exuberance deeper than pain. Great earthly dreamer, mother of angels, encouraging frontiers and mystery beyond void, knowing choices were not me you forgave each mistake, a sun unable to repay life and weeping with joy of never being asked to...

I awake to orange-petaled ganglia, to a mother evinced by earthbound stars, a lucent field recalling her beauty, the tightrope daring and stories read by snowfall, saved from perdition by trust in my goodness. Saffron trumpets surround, ovate lobes in sun-pocket interval, a fluxing light on unity, texture pierced by song, heroic, untamed, delighting the senses. What supports this source of awe, of what are its borders made? A path ahead, a cardinal direction, a line to one that might let me try again. The brighter the street, the darker the alley. Stand, shake these tremors, these curves of identity, abstractions distinguished by exile, the right track a moving target reflected in silver tides, in soil drained like strength. This too will pass. My progress stops in desert of miracles repeated, in contours fashioned by youth, by faerie ring and slumber's melody. Fluttering wings behind me, sibilant whispers, parrot men with saw-blade grins, what strange papillons. They say they will help, that their queen will see me. Is gulf from word to intent ventured with profit? Garden blooms or dinner bells, from where come the wolves? What of resilience, is it found in frailty, this assurance of decay guided by touch? Ahead is circus of impulse, garish and tangerine, a clock's pinned center pulling like lies, commanding I dream of luxury and dimmed vibration, illusion in judgment and harvest, digesting it all.

Inside the pavilion drones fly high over shuffled colonnades, the countless raising their bonds, as if to say we have so much time, but to whom have we given our souls? The old are dragged, the crying silenced, a studied brood that clings like rags, as though such airs might stall fate's hand. I pass the crazed and worse, my presence a speeding cause. I would hush the din but voice-flung daggers rattle home. Will I cry for those in pain, or for fact that I cannot? A sprawling tract, a vaulted space, here the congress snatch and yearn, candied alms to grant release, eyes rolling like horses. Ahead is a lectern, presided over by hounds, they say, “Brothers and Sisters, why are churches built like castles? Which informs your faith, and which rules mystery? The keys to salvation are in your grasp yet wrong cast vote will hide their ring. Weakness is fault, your suffering an illusion. Behold the world's indifference, the whims of life, your certainty defamed.” They claim I am no different, counting days as guaranteed, adherence feeding hungry ghosts, the routines that keep me sane. Am I to suffer for the other, become ill at heart, or will I let friends climb and fall, under no power but their own?

I am led through velvet halls. Temptation brushing short-breath steps, frontier and inference dispelled. My escorts twitch, what awaits to stir them so, these winged agents, nether sprites? Lament fades as comfort closes corridors. I am funneled into lair of delight, curtains hanging like suns, and from above a longing flute, votive to a better heart. She sits relaxed on pillowed throne, their peerless queen, tender hips to quell dissent and face a puzzle of allure, eyes fey and sly, coal-fired lakes, her skin a veil of subtlety. I feel my hunger posit spans, a sagging will swamped by greed, the need for release, for viscera expunged, secrets in a vessel shared. My heart beats like thunder trapped behind a windowpane, order lost in stillness gone. She coos a melody, an organ grind diffused on air, a poppy breeze, and says, “How did you get here? No matter. Tell me, why do we not speak of dreams? They vibrate so, these gifts from depths. Have you ever wondered if the hungry dream as you, to know the cosmos, or do they simply long not to be left behind? Songs to control, songs of deliverance, all so tiresome. What is true other than desire?”

Dripping walls and harvest floor, trove of savored nutriment, fungal sprouts that call my name. I reach and she says, “No, not these. What is gained by distant sky, a fire burning in your mind? If this were your dream there would be a choice, but what authors such ownership? Does the caged bird sing for captor’s ear, and is the bargain not fair, fear exchanged for harmony? Do not worry, there is always time to act on providence, that scrawling writ in glowing hand, flashing hot like dragging steel. Portent calls but remains just so. To extirpate a state of grace will not avert your deeds, those larcenists of symmetry. If we are made of acts unchanged, then no harm done by giving in.” I see myself in rectitude, a prince gone still, piped with gold, arachnid stings, a cincture wrapped in spangled moods, in animus and trickery. What strange love this is, better not to question why lest such a gift bare crooked fang. Consequence speaks, a glossy dark bewilderment, it tells me to grab what I can, the time for innocence has passed, that to give up wonder found in chance is petty rate for sanctuary. Memory chimes its primrosed voice, a child in ruins, a light by which no rainbow comes. It urges concord, absolution, but is such way-station or artifice where contentment and sloth appease? Can such tides be reversed, or does yielding loop, fold, rush, and scour? That early ape at edge of dawn, was its first word yes or no, and what good these questions when rage and rapture alternate, simple graves and numbered days, the best already lived and the future wanting by its weight? Can we dry our eyes, charred amidst serenity?

The countless waltz a dance prescribed, crank and gear the den alive, lyric steps, a fragile web, somehow safer in the act, eyes to feet and keeping time. Pleasure swells, happiness that only is as distance keeps from what pursues, where decadence settles, like ivy on sacrifice. The room a wheel, flourished beats and polished wood, parts that crack when partners change. Here acuity is bartered for seclusion, for heads hung low, and I wonder what might be too beautiful to keep in one heart, one life? A dancer stands tall, clear of eye and step, back slender, like peace on the wind. The rest regard this breaker of rank, each head cocked like birds to a worm, and in fury they descend, the one that stood is blown apart. Through tooth and bone the throng retreats, each a witness, but not so near to be involved. Loosed by madness the riddle of my life comes like a shiver—I want more than this. The queen turns to me, says, “Where to now? Where you have no face, no name, no fate or redemption? A child of adversity having bid farewell to all you have done, and all you never will? You are welcome to it.” Her eyes flare like candles and I am dragged into a storm that covers tracks as they are made. In time I am abandoned, left to desert of winter where no sign is of friend or beast, nothing but the bitter sheets, and every path an unknown road.

I bend into the moor, the frozen sky. Might I sustain on experience, having been taught all I need to know, to meet absence where the air curves like dunes, to contemplate that which will not yield? The sphere follows, the same black moon, a valkyrie from afar, quiet as a lullaby. What use familiarity that breeds contempt, what then happens close to God? A building rises, dark, abandoned, a structure that has lost its will, though which came first who can say? I enter and the day’s lessons stiffen over lands where refusal plays its secret chord, where empathy would preserve but nothing is or was, silent as this room. If my love is here it is in some nearby dimension where hearts do not change by coercion, where the sun seeks a role undeciphered by its dependents, by longevity and wish that its rays will touch creases carved white by squinted wandering. I dust my hands on a cloak that seems to absorb not just light but toil of history and walk out to commemorate a conscious past eroded but for the mystery it once held, great ideas whose utterance seemed enough to ensure their survival. How wrong we were. The sphere slips away, no reference point remaining in this waste. What I would give for grain of encouragement to outweigh reality, surrounded by husks of daughters marooned, of sons unmoved to help themselves. They turn like heads on conquered land, as if to ask where peace is found. I say nothing, as though a kind word might be wasted, the odds not worth the one saved. A fool's notion in a fool's paradise. I look over those forms and know it is not how I wish to end, hollowed out by wind and sun. I want to know the measure of our bond, and then I want that time again, until eternity has gorged on who I am, all I have experienced, on all I have shaped, all that has shaped me. Too late now. I am laid down among the rest. Why do dreams come true, then this?

She wears lilies and indigo, flowers that play in the blue-gray of her eyes, the blue-green of the sea. I know she carries some measure, some meaning, but cannot guess it, this wonder of life speaking my name. The surf frames her steps, the fragrant air her smile, a concert of radiance among the waves, emerald and shining. She is forged of cosmic filament, sweeping away the desire to look back, to ponder tales gone wrong. What makes dreams less than real? Is it lack of tactile element, the uncertainty of time, or knowing that safety exists behind every door, that to dispel a nightmare one just needs to awake? This is her confidence, the surety that every step is a gift, that darkness can only abide for so long, and even wars must end, their conclusion bringing freshly tilled soil. We pass artisans of every kind, purveyors of lacework and rugs, carvings and beads, watering cans, rings, glassware, and gold. She ducks out of sight, the better to speak with those of her make, of salt and earth and splendor. Who is to say what next farewell is final, is it not then vital to treat all just so, to leave the air clear and brimming with thanks? She returns to the sun, the day grows brighter. I say, “Do you remember when we first met? I saw you and everything changed. In that instant I knew perfection had no boundary, that a thousand stories and a thousand more could not contain you, all you would mean to me.” She places her toes on mine and we kiss. She says, “I could not live without you.” . . . “Banish the thought. In fact, do not banish it, there is no need. It is not a possibility in a universe of possibilities.” . . . “You’re sweet.” . . . “You’re savory.” . . . “You’re funny.” . . . “I have my moments,” I say, as I scrunch my face and sniff the air. She rolls her eyes, says, “Come on, don’t do the rat face.” . . . “I can’t help it, it just happens.” She punches my arm and clasps my hand. We walk on—her talking, laughing, connecting—and I listening, silent and rapt, not interrupting lest my words come between us. There are many things I want to tell her, how she takes my heart to its limit, that I gain strength in our love knowing its inverse exists but cannot be tainted thereby, that to be hers is to be lifted, every detail an exhilaration, the only shame being unable to share this feeling fully, directly. To call it beauty comes close, but lacks the intensity of longing given relief. Mere pleasure is further still, having removed the soul from the equation it started. I look to the fading sun and think about how to control these things, lull them to sleep, but only for a time, to appreciate their nature, how they buck and fight, jump and live, like chaos to stillness, flame to night, you to I. Is everyone able to taste this candy at the center of life, sweeter than suffering? I tell you the only thing I can, that I will love you forever.

Supine under ancient skies, that vault of prejudice, sprawling trench and hills brought low, a blanket of uncertainty, no leeward side or recess, no crest or slope, the inner gusts reminding me of being alive, the outer taking it back. Reflections on a heart of glass, untamed passions, goals aligned and souls that wish to be. The wind persists where I cannot, so laden with winter, these cold wanderings, distant fires become smoke, and always the storm. Am I hero or criminal, on bold frontier, or jailed for some heinous crime? Perhaps I am just one more looking for comfort from a creator I have every reason to forfeit. How to find mercy, and when is enough? Humbled by this great unrest, providing pause but never space to fly. Can tears be shed by those beyond? What fact, if known, would stop the flow? Not just once, but for all time? Love never dies. Yes, that is such alchemy. It is in martyring ourselves to anger that love is lost, to sarcasm and misery, to cunning proclaiming wasted time and the widening well of possession. Here I understand that life is a sculpture destined to crumble, and the question is not of states or legacies but of how well one can make each breath an expression of truth, our very existence a mandala of sand, given each other, given the world. Our depth may be equaled by the extent of our grief but must never be outweighed by it. Chaos is a paper tiger we ride unalterable by attack or slight, carried by the wave and wetness at beginning and end, the wrapping and reality. The storm continues tinsel-gray, not attuned to plan devised, burying these thoughts and vapor trails, a brume to the west, a driving beat that has a name.

No more. Just all as it is. A cold and beautiful life. Simple, hard. Giving in but not giving up. A rock far below the current come to terms with goodbyes, knowing the assault will never stop and shining just the same. My vision weaves for distant mountains, cramped with chill, but worry goes in salience, to show concern is arrow for which there is no shooter. All in good time, of which none is left. Humbled in seeing these thoughts are not mine, that ownership is the dream. I would have let go that deadly praxis given time, that encroachment of sacristy, the deepest cut an arterial coup of images made word, maps redrawn as if the movement of lines would set them alight. I would have started fresh, all accounts settled in dust and snow, that which weighs on blinking eyes, a calling soft like cultist’s sleep: know the darkness. I consume it like a creature enchanted, setting peat to fire and stoking compromise, prodding neglect and servile destiny. What I wouldn’t trade for a friend to share in dying, but the street echoes empty, a crucible on winds of change. There, a light, swinging casual through the fog, through winter’s burn and shadow, a garden caring not for its confines, aspect or all it will exist. Brighter now, a hand to wipe these tears.