Graham Words

I have a word for everything, from morphemes and sentences to subatomic particles and mystical philosophy —everything except wonder, my out-of-stock commodity. Logic on stilts has become unhandsome. So I approach this streetlamp star to ask, wonder, where you are! And now the headlights bend like anxious, icy comets. Car after car after car after car . . . but none of them know my thought after thought after thought after thought. No connection is made, whether by the pane or on the sidewalk, my telescopes to the ordinary. Must I relate to the world literally? LED, aluminum, plastic, and halogen do not impress metaphors and similes.

My heart chases the leaves like a dog taunts a sheep. Attention halts under October's maple, never forgoing the railway. Gossamer salt and blaze demand stillness. I transgress and walk, taking words to heart that speak against mine. The corner cuts my boredom down.

I gave my left to the moon, and we made our vows, accepting this void I gave my right to the sun, waited silently, forgetting this void I gave my hands to the sky, and in this union, this is our parting Looking back on that love, I was one with the day, so I thought, when truly I was one with the night

Two quiet balsam trees rest in contradiction. Chlorotic and bright, the colours create friction —especially the leaves. The qualia of sight laughs at prediction. Light speaks Greek, and dark, Hebrew— the language of chimes. But before I knew, the sound was not meek, for the crow had climbed; her judgment would imbue.