Fabrications br On a theme br And its variants br br Thoroughbred horses br Driving fire br And chariots br br The crystal, glassy showers fall like knives amid a garden of imaginary flowers br Falling clear br Falling upon green br A quartz quarry broken into, revelation on a small scale of what depth is like br The marble pit flooded, the long leap downward, is a memory borrowed and an image enjoyed br Falling so far br br A sphingine mirage roars in the middle of the desert, cornered with change br As the fire of the sun burns by day and melts the candlesticks by night br Bring on the chimes, the bells, and the sleeping spells; let them ring! br If the sky could be no more silver, let it all be painted gray br br Black skies br With silver clouds br Would be br So beautiful br br Compare the wind to cats with nine tails br Of comfort rather than torture, like that bony tail br Rubbing into one’s eyes, forcing them shut br Like an icy wind freezing the face, lulling it to sleep br Admittedly, the wind will top a cat any day of the week br We can’t call a cat what it is and the wind what it is not br br How the weeks pour so quickly in long days br And too many hours, and multitudes of tasks at hand br And stretches of lost sleep, and humble weeping, br Warping of time, lost minutes in reading and writing, br Stifling boredom, away in catacombs… br And to note the swift passing of slow days br Is all the more intriguing.