Walkabout on this continent of days and dreams.
Look at these objects—daemons—lining shelves and walls.
Lovely, once lively.
Found or made.
Hanging with me —inside me—wherever I landed along our butterfly migration.
Moving haven, re-shelved wherever I lived.
A surround where patients—mutual sufferers—
unmask hell and heaven.
Inner and outer.

Walk with me across memories’ burlesque.
A script eighty plus years long.
Wave a wand on symphonies of what’s surefire or echo.
Watch the crowd–-wandering free—
slim down and grow up.
See cobwebbed loves and hates sparkle
on gaunt landscapes of assumptions.
Witness the pull of unseeable
currents in the genetic/psycho/cosmic river we paddle.
Float in the gigabytes of sounds-feelings-smells-tastes,
as well as appearance.

We re-syncopate, re-dance, who we were/are.
The baton taps.
Petrified actions dismount
from dusty/slimy pedestals.
Lose light bulbs
re-twist.

Dynamic flow re-tunes stasis.
Spirit is polished in this chrysalis.
As William Blake says, here, we’ll see the splendor that awes us
is a mere glimpse of the wonder waiting
on the other side. Through death’s screen door.