they are right next to you 
in the lanes, hugging a shoulder


they twitter in rafters 
calling down to your mess

in rays, crescents

the white curled backs 
of snapshots tucked in a frame,

eyes of the dead


there is a gimbal lamp, ledger, 
a table of solid deal,

clocks & militaria

a dirty blotter 
its crusty bottle, a plume


there are beetles and boojum 
specimen jars decorated

with walkingsticks, waterstriders 
and lunar moths

a treatise on rotating spheres


this swivel chair, worn, 
from some years past

a few doubloons, powder horn 
musket bag and tricorne hat

a cannon, its yawning round


they are closer than comfort 
closer than night breaking

over the mountain face,

empurpled, its silhouette 
ragged, silver

unquantifiable in pixie dusk


closer than power lines 
casting shadows on brush

breath, heart ticking 
the prepared delay

as twilight settles 
in waves and crests

a water fowl, hooded owl


an avant garde, 
a backward glance