It was a strange evening
Once my colleagues had died down
Descended the glass staircase
Towards their other lives to rise
And elevate the spirits of my thoughts
My sleeping nostalgias
Still buried in the process flow
Hung on the drying lines of form
And reason checked her grip
In the boasting of spring ephemerals
We all need a little heart
In the Technicolor logic of life
Lamenting the loss of the ego
As the day sets firm
Into the dust of memories
She stood in the wake
A Peruvian mountain
I felt like a vapor
Shaping her curves
Whispering to the recesses of her vision
The groves of her intellect
The blossoms of May apples
Listening
To the wind in the pines
And there was a trail of wine
Housing a congealed residue
At the base of an empty glass
That we’d come to rest our heads upon
For making love to our imaginations
When the evening was a stranger to me
And how was she so beautiful
While I was dearly missing?Jason Greendyk, www.jasongreendyk.com
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