Monday, February 8, 2016

Fantasia Number Three

Watching the wind-swept snow, the mind is moving.

In a sudden stillness, snowflakes surface from a barren current.

Then in a change of wind direction, wintry ghosts are swirling in their dervish robes.

This cutting scene is taking place before a triptych picture window.

Inside pictures of New England mountains hang on milky walls.

Meanwhile a forty-one inch television screen is holy with obscure blackness.

There are no mirrors outside. There are no mirrors inside. I am the only mirror.

First, there is a snowstorm. Then there is no storm. Then there is.

But in an Arizona desert, ravens finger blue guitars.

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