We who never see the skies,

Blinded to pink clouds

Trembling in their mountainous 

Disguise, walled off

From snow-filled hills

Whose crests and meadows

Dot the valley’s shawl;

We whose crimes

And failures filter out

The trees with city grime

And doubt; those like all

Of us who delay the sun

And willows breaking through

The melting rime of spring

With place holders 

Made of ring tone ghosts

And prying iPhone faces; 

We whose lives 

Are shrouded from the winds 

And seas by cubicles 

and shades,  -  

We bless the Pleiades


Maybe all these teams 

Of falling stars that save 

Our eyes from wild horizons

With waving scenes

Of photographer’s excess

Will later rise to dream

Behind their appalling plastic flesh

Like gods in the machines.


March 10th, 2013

Tippet Alley, May Palace, Vail