it's not quite morning

the sun's not officially in the sphere
of burning thru the aether. the moon hangs
like a vanilla wafer to the west, over
your head, going down. still
above the high school, it's surreal
as only reality can get. its mass
rests on the ramparts of education.
traffic is sparse, moving in quantum space
i fit into the stream, boozle past the languid
cop whose arms are by his side
imitating kafka and berries
and drop the boy off
for another day
where mystic reality snapped
into being on the turn of a boson.




on the way home, her face receeds
framed in trees that slide at 40 mph.
the sky a savannah, birds small as elephants
eclipsed by her beauty. freckles move
over the visage of some alien light
that escapes the dog's lunge. still
the lunge. tonight we'll catch her
in a lens as she moves exposed
over the continents we crawl.
but we won't hold her. she can
only be kept in distance
from these arms.