The double dream ƃuᴉɹds ɟo

It wasn’t that it wasn’t understood, in that coinciding of hemispheres,
Although perhaps the self was confused in relation to the whole — as
Adam had it, what with the ready coterie queuing ahead of the la ti
Made by their hands —but there are seasons when movement is slowed,
Pictures paint fewer words, dreamboats walk away from the viewer,
Youth get out of cars for what is thought to have been fought for.
There was an invitation, a plan, all right: caligae, winged arches, a cuppa
Some mounds of drapery in the way of a leg on a bed, flow of perceptions
Done stretching in the heat of an austere building, to generalized truth
A watershed meeting between them two noble on grassy dunes, and so
Semele looked to the sky above the brown expanse with bated breath.
But as went unacknowledged, the scene wasn’t what was envisioned at all
More than just us, my friend messaged me, pavilion shadows interspersing
Marionetted, so that what was looked forward to had power and privilege
More and less than the initial prospectus: questions leaping in suggested seas
The spaces held by our voices fearlessly cunning demonstrating proactivity
In all but where it might be required, an opulent house under distinct clouds
Of a dulled blue sky accentuating its unpeopled facades, colored vests
Instead of the overcast forecast, and missing reasons for obfuscation
Duly noted by a thoughtful locomotive. Seemingly choreographed
By someone out of that picture, simultaneously intimate with and far
From the fire of consequence. That’s how it appeared, as though one could
On the one hand be affirmed for having such an active anticipation
On the other rebuked for no real understanding of the revolution, For our
Vive!s and Glory be!s | for our self preservation: comme ils disent
C’est la vie; halfway between a way of seeing what is and sᴉ ʇɐɥʍ.

The mind as a leaf

Wears recognizably, grin flicking
Between tree tendrils of light
Raising pockmarked cap
Reddish in nostrils, encircled voice
Hirsute hands quiver tying
Threads of a distant universe

Dry stomata all the same
The same atoms that cling to the skin
That knows most, speaks in hard flaking
Salutes, shakes solemn hands, also a token alien
In passing some understand, some imagine laterally

Noted once, ego notice now
Morning eyes elsewhere as rain falls distant
Under an upcoming parkside hotel
Another similar day, we remarked on that rain
Over there but dry elsewhere, an odd phenomenon

A leaf there coursing to the ground
From a sole tree unclasped
Caught in that sunlit aura
Spinning with a bee’s center
Between blood bark and autumn
Sodden with spent others.