in time's trembling fist
a black and white checkerboard
extends to the horizon
but senses no edge
and in the absence of shadow
no depth

                    pits and pedestals
therefore come upon me unnoticed

I tunnel among tubers -
rutabaga and the bite of radish
in a collective mulch
of tiny white shoes, rubber balls
and curled pages of books

               dahlias funnel down
               the sweet smell of sun

bee-stung consciousness
in air gone still - the aspen holds
its leaves tight and waits
for a wish to fly the pappus
of the dandelion

through a door in oxblood red
the sea rises from an earthenware bowl
polishes it to fine porcelain

               and then I am flotsam

in the stratosphere's dawn
a glass bubble holding all light

                  as my arm drifts by
wrapped around a silver horn
content without pancreas or liver -
my foot on its own course

              happy at last to hold the pen



�2002 by PJ Nights
~previously published at Apples & Oranges