My midnight

liminal spaces are more real, more realistic,
than those road-crossings announcing heres or theres.
beginnings and endings are pretty myths of hindsight,
a retrospective patterning of mess.
i do like this about sunny autumn days.
i like how these months point down while
springtime points inexorably up and up
(you can't wipe her smile off her face!).
the beautiful things i see are almost always dark,
greyed out like the knit on my back;
so, i guess, the in-betweens are mine -
mostly in a gorgeous fraying decay.
my mind is a racing one, a soft dark cave full
of abstractly-rendered projections and premonitions.
some passages are built up and round;
some narratives are threadbare loose.
this is ok.