There it goes again

 perpetual mosquito, flying ‘side my head

Calm after the storm, after the calm

                before the storm

With the galaxies aligning and the initial combustion engine

    forth comes a library of/ (in) complete silence

flying buzzing tolling following it’s always just

the same. Or could we just have installed it incorrectly?

As the writer’s soul bleeds through ancient oak veins

It is there in the crinkling of ink on cloth.

The tomes resonate with the midmorning echo of

  last year’s taps.

When the sun flies to the raven to break a canon’s

spine

and when the rain flies downward leisurely upon

sand pile colonies, we write it off to be

“within our head” – a mere moth’s dream towards

Beauty while alighting on a garden rail.

So here it comes again

 waiting in the silence of forest green eyes.

With the snap of the albatross,

is it the doorbell, a pizzaman holding out the future?

Or perhaps a rusted churchbell murmuring through the

 reeds and boughs of yesterday mourning?

Or even a broken teapot, with a deep forlorn whistle,

 beckoning us to stay awhile in this ringing moment

You call Home.