Sometimes in poetry

I listen to resonance ring
in ingots slung upon anvils.
I witness images slip inside
hesitant visions of dualities 
and trace words from lips
unkissed by this reality.

So what of these swirling waves 
wielded by the seas... perhaps 
wind patterns in wheat fields,   
or the summer-warm stones
in some forlorn churchyard  
lonely as bony Mondays –

I feel warm winds lofted in liquid birdsong. I see 
people unwind their temporal chains as God
wanders through cardboard stage-props 
taking names. And any loose intuition 
is just a collective echo of thoughts
scribbled across ad-libbed finality.

Numbers rotate unscathed 
in their mysterious dance 
upon cellular divisions of infinity. 
Giant cog wheels of history 
roll into the seas and rust. 
In polarized inversion, 
wintry midnight suns 
throw no shadow of ego. 
Somewhere on Earth, 
a drop of vanilla ice-cream 
falls between sandy toes.